Untitled

At the time of posting this entry, in 18 minutes, I will have legal tenancy in my townhouse that kicks so much ass, it makes my butt bleed.  That one was for you Grace.  Too far? Did I wreck it?

I was even seriously considering this afternoon, moving all of Dax's stuff, packing a suitcase, pillow and blanket for me and just getting the fuck out of dodge so that I didn't have to spend one more night in this soul vacuum of a domicile.

If there is any positive I can get out of living in this hell hole is that I will NEVER trust the phrase "a family that's just down on their luck".  Unless they can show me newspaper clippings of their house burning down or a terrible tragedy, I will assume that they are the white trash they probably are.  I will also never trust anyone that owns Lakefront property or a Montessori school.  I will also be a militant bitch upon Duct Cleaners entering my home.  I have been saving this story for you for the appropriate date.  This is it.

Two weeks before my due date (April 3rd which actually WAS the day Daxon was born), Lord Poo-Head thought it would a fantastic idea to have the ducts cleaned since it had never been done in this house before.  I was indifferent as I just got my refrigerator and dryer fixed after nagging and waiting for over two weeks.  Her friends who had connections to "a professional Duct Cleaning company" pulled up in a pick-up truck with a large vacuum sitting in the back.  A little alarm went off in my head.  I chose to ignore said alarm.  I knew a guy who worked for a duct cleaning service and I remembered his truck actually being the vacuum.  But, it is in my nature to give benefit of the doubt and trust that perhaps there are effective, but smaller ways of doing this. 

They go about their business and start sucking the ducts.  A little while later, they knock on my door and tell me that they have a little air hose that they will use to blow air down the vents and cold air returns.  "Hmmmm" I thought, "they never told me about this part" The alarm rang louder.  I chose to ignore the alarm, figuring it was just a drill.  They begin to blast air using several pounds of pressure down one of the vents. A little bit of dust flew out of the vent.  I thought to myself "Gee, I better get stuff  out of the way of the vents, gee, I really wished they gave me a bit of heads up on this".  So off I waddle.  I enter the next room (my bedroom) to discover eighty year old dust BILLOWING in a giant plume.  All. over. everything.  I turn around and ask them if this is normal.  They said, "oh yeah, a bit of dust is normal".  I then told them that this was not "a bit" of dust.  I asked them if this whole process was really necessary.  I wanted to avoid any further mess.  They insisted that this was necessary and being all stupid, I allowed them to continue.  Hormones are a mother-fucker. 

They went into my room.  They didn't say anything about the mess.  I was feverishly waddling around in the baby's room trying desperately to move all of the baby's stuff out of the room in a vain attempt to spare it from being showered in century old dust.  At this time, I didn't have his dressers yet, and all of his clothes where all washed and neatly, perfectly and cutely folded into laundry baskets.  By the time I got two things immediately surrounding the vents moved, it was too late.  A massive, grey ball containing skin, hair, bugs corpses and spiders from the last century erupted from the vent and coated everything.   

I coughed.  Then began to cry.

I asked them why I wasn't warned about this.  I asked them to please stop.  But they insisted that this was common knowledge and that to leave a job unfinished would not a good idea.  I stood, breathless from dust inhalation, waddling and lifting, and helplessly watched as they moved from vent to vent, cold air return to cold air return, showering everything I owned with disgusting ancient dust.

After they left.  I sobbed harder than I had in a very long time.  Gary came home to me sitting on the couch nearly buried in a pile of Kleenexes.  He rushed over to me. I told him what happened.  The look I saw in that man eyes I will never forget.  He just hugged me.  He held me as I wept.  He comforted me.  Then he went to see if any of his equipment was damaged.  By some miracle (Rubbermaid), it all escaped. 

I called Lord Poo-head.  Gary said he couldn't because he would not be able to restrain himself.  I knew, so I called.  She wasn't home, so I spoke with her husband and told him everything.  He was no different than they were.  He said of course a little dust was to be expected.  I told him that this was NOT a little dust.  He asked if I could leave everything the way it is, until he could schedule a day for the management to come back and take a look to verify the damage.  I lost it.  I told him that for him to expect me (a pregnant asthmatic) to live in that filth and brush me off as some over-reactive preggo was insulting, unfair, and unreasonable.  I hung up on him.  About an hour later, Lord Poo-head called me.  The first thing she asked was if they used any "covers" on the vents and cold air returns.  I said no.  I was not aware that covers where EXPECTED.  She was horrified to hear what had happened and apologized profusely.  She told me that she would report them to the owner and file a complaint.  She also gave me $50 to cover any cleaning costs.  Yeah.  Right.  Thanks. 

So for the next two weeks, instead of relaxing and enjoying my last child-free days, I was cleaning, re-washing, re-folding, scrubbing, vacuuming and trying to restore my sanity.

I have been through more bullshit in this apartment in the last 9 months than I have in nine years of being on my own. I think the worst thing to happen before was that a fuse needed to be replaced in an oven.  I understand I have been lucky.  I have heard some horrible tales of horrible apartments and even worse Landlords.  Nightmares.  I also realize and acknowledge that there are alot of people out there who do not even have homes.  That there are others out there that would do anything to live in this apartment.  I know I am blessed.  I eat, I'm warm, I'm loved.

But this is my life.  I am human and I can't help but wallow in my own selfish miseries. I was pregnant, then a new mother.  I had enough to deal with without the roof over my head turning against me.  They may not be big problems, but they are my own.  I am just glad to leave this place, and turn over a new leaf.   Start a new chapter. 

I am The Swiss Family Blessed.

Comments

[superkev]

dust is icky. 80 year-old dust is moreso. hooray for new beginnings! that kicks so much ass your shit just falls out.

[GraceD]

Laura! I'm lunging for my box of tissues and my albuterol inhaler right now! Ack! If I were around I'd pull up in my trusty Subaru Forrester and start loading up Dax's stuff right now, sister.

Further to the kick ass business, once you involve a colostomy bag then you would be crossing the line.

[Daxohol]

Indeed 80 year old dust is disgusting.

Thank you Grace, it really is nice to know that I have support from afar in my quest to get the flyin' eff outta here. *hug*

[GraceD]

I'm only offering help and my Forester so you can sponsor my family in our quest for Canuck citizenship. The shit - and the dust - is hitting the fan down here!