Reason number 39756385 why renting a house blows.

And when I say “blows” I am not thinking about bubbles or dandelions.

Or even that hot guy I saw standing in line at the grocery store the other day. Rawr.

I’m referring more to hairy ballsacks, possibly even diseased ones.

I have a good running list of reasons (39756385 items long, clearly) for this particular brand of Makes You Want To Vomit All Of Your Meals From Ever suckage, but today let’s talk about:

“When Shit Breaks And Doesn’t Get Fixed In A Timely Manner”

When shit breaks and you own your own house, the reason why it sucks is because you have to FIX THAT SHIT YOSELF.  So that means, get off your lazy ass and determine the cause of the problemage and then do something about it.

When shit breaks and you rent, you’re often NOT ALLOWED to fix that shit yoself, nor are you allowed to hire someone else to fix that shit for yoself.  Because, of course, when you signed the lease you did no less than admit that your judegment is not to be trusted, m’kay? And you signed an agreement that says “I am a dummee and cannot fiss thingies goodlike and also I can not has enough smart parts in my head to find any other good peoples to help me fiss thingies eether. ever.”

I swear that’s what the thing said, and normally I wouldn’t sign a document rife with such horrible spelling mistakes, for chrissakes, but if I remember correctly I had diarrhea that day so I was kind of in a hurry to get things wrapped up, because there is really nothing worse than sitting in a realtor’s office with a hot wet ass that ISN’T just a euphemism for how damn sexy you are.

But I digress.

So, basically, we’re not allowed to fix broken things.  Instead we have to call and report them to property management, and they will send someone to the house to fix what’s broken.

Wait, no.  I wrote that incorrectly.

They will THINK ABOUT HOW THEY ARE SUPPOSED TO send someone to the house to fix what’s broken FOR ABOUT A WEEK, but they will not do anything about it.

Then when your husband calls them and says, “Uh, did you get my two messages about how the kitchen light is broken and my wife has already set 4 fires in there trying to cook in the dark because she’s an idiot, and could you please just go fix it before she accidently builds an atom bomb trying to make Mac & Cheese in the dark? I know it sounds improbable, but really, you don’t know her. And it is not at all improbable.  That kitchen light is SO MUCH MORE important than you realize” they will be like, “Huh?”

And then they’ll be like, “Oh, we need approval from the owner since it’s just lightbulbs.”

This is the part of the story where I tell you how I almost threw the phone across the room when John was relaying things to me.  Because I was in the room the day that John called them and left a message, and I heard him saying, “Hi, our kitchen light is broken and we thought it might just be the bulbs, so I went out and bought new ones, but it still won’t turn on, so it’s not the bulbs.  We need someone to come out and have a look at it and fix it.”

And:

1) See that part where he said IT’S NOT THE BULBS? Yeah. I HEARD THAT.
2) John hasn’t been home since October 16th.  I just want to go ahead and point that out.
3) As I type this, the light is STILL BROKEN.

After he set them straight in a much more polite way than I’d ever be capable of, they promised him someone would “be out tomorrow” to have a look at it.

BAHAHAHAHAHA!

“Be out tomorrow” in Property Managementese CLEARLY means “sit around with a thumb up one’s ass.”  Either that or “laugh at your dark kitchening ass while we pretend like we care about you and your broken thingies, when if fact, we so very much do not. Buy a lamp, asshole.”  I’m not sure, but it’s definitely ONE of those.

A WEEK LATER he called again to find out if they would prefer that we:

A) Burn down their building.
B) Set bull weavels loose in their office.
C) Poop in a box and send it to them instead of next month’s rent.
D) Get H1N1 first and then poop in a box and send it to them instead of next month’s rent.

They asked if there was an option E, and while I told John to say, “Yes, All of the above, you sons of bitches,” instead he just asked if they could please come fix the light in the kitchen.

He is such a pussy.

So finally, someone came the next day and looked at the light.

(Technically, they said someone would “be out tomorrow” again and so I got all pissed off because I AM LEARNING THEIR LANGUAGE. But they decided to mix things up to keep me on my toes.  I am on to you, anyway, Property Management.)

On Friday, a nice man came to the house, stood on one of my chairs and looked at the kitchen light fixture.

He told me it was broken.

I almost had a hysterical breakdown at the delivery of this news because I had no idea the kitchen light was broken and I thought frantically, “Holy crap, how am I going to make dinner now, in the dark???”

But really, he said the ballast is fried and that he’d have to remove it and replace it.  Then he took it off the fixture and he left, saying, “If I don’t see you again later today, I’ll see you Monday!”

It’s Wednesday.  I have not seen the friendly Ballast Replacing Fairy yet.

I’mma gonna go into the kitchen later and whip up that atom bomb.

Hope you fuckers liked your lives. Some shit’s ‘splodin’ tonight.

****

UPDATE: So after I wrote this, but before I could publish it, the friendly Ballast Replacing Fairy actually showed up, except it was the same guy who came before and told me the ballast was broken, so I was a little bit disappointed.  I was hoping for something with wings and a tutu or at least a glittery wand or a Pegasus waiting for him in backyard while he was inside working.  Regardless, he had a new ballast with him and the knowledge necessary to install it.

Fortunately, while he was working, Braden made sure to point out loudly to me that “that’s not Daddy!” saving me from making the horrible mistake of pestering the poor guy to rub my feet.  Of course, this is nothing new from Braden; he’s always screaming that information at random times, like when I’m on the couch making out with boyfriends, and also sometimes when my pimp comes to collect.

Duh, Braden, DUH.

Oh, but apparently the Ballast Replacing Fairy IS a fireman.  Braden said so.  Which clearly means he needs to be reported to the fire chief for his Fairy Side Gig.  I’m 97% sure that there’s a “No Fairies” rule in the Fireman Job Requirements.  It’s right next to the part that says you have to have really big muscles and the ability to grow masculine patterns of facial hair on command.  I’m not sure whether it’s more or less important than looking sexy while you slide down a big metal pole in a hurry.  Anyway, he’s breaking the rules.

I’m telling.

PS: You’re a bunch of lucky bastards. There’s light in the kitchen now, so I probably won’t be blowing up the earth tonight.

Probably.