“Take The Mickey Out Of Me”

Status: Quo Minus

by F. Theresa Gillard

BOSTON, MA—(Weekly Hubris)—5/17/10—So, I’ve happened upon what I believe to be an about-as-good-as-I-can-get abode. Believe me when I say that it is quite unbelievable that I consider it to be good. And, I’m gonna go a huge step further and admit that I truly believed it to be great. Past tense.

Seriously, I should have started running as soon as this thought began flickering. However, I was glamoured, as they say, and in the throes of walking on clouds. Ahhh, the calm before the storm.

It went a little something like this . . . .  I contacted a realtor regarding a rental in Waltham, MA, which is a mere eleven or so miles from Boston, thus cutting my commute by more than half.

The rental seems ideal (see previous admonitions against the use of this word), since it’s on the second and third level of a two-family home. You have to get crafty to avoid neighbor-noise and, by now, I’m an expert. This way, if your first-floor neighbors are extremely noisy, you can just go up another level to escape it all.

So . . . I meet the realtor one night after work at my chosen property. She informs me that she’ll also show me another property in Waltham that has the same two-floor setup.

Fine, I love seeing another or other places. (It’s part and parcel of my housing search neurosis.)

The place I chose to see is horrendous at best. It is mostly carpeted, or floored in what appears to be carpet, and it smells like it has never been cleaned or aired out. How about, No!

Moving right along, we go to see the other place. And, as I’m following the realtor, I’m trying really hard to keep an open mind. But, behold! This place is wonderful! It has two full baths, two floors, and countless rooms. Now, what oh what could possibly be the downside (or flipside)?

The realtor notices my interest and asks, “Theresa, is this more like what you’re looking for?”

And, praise the Lord (seriously, praise Him), I cannot even contain myself. I sputter out, “I absolutely love this place. This is exactly what I’ve been looking for. What are the next steps to get me in here?”

I’m informed that I need to fill out a rental app, make an offer (on a rental?) and submit this with a deposit.

No problem, I’m all over this. Covered completely. One little hitch: the realtor tells me that the landlord is requesting first, last and security deposit—not negotiable.

I’ll need you to keep in mind that in this economy, landlords are quite understanding and, for the most part, are asking for either first and last or first and security. One more important note: this means that I need to bring to lease-signing a check for $4,650.

Man! And, Say what?!

Yes, $4,650. You got it. I’m figuring I have nothing to lose. So, I put in an offer which would put the monthly rent at $1,450.; paying the full security deposit; half of the last month up front and the remainder over the year’s lease. Effectively bringing the monthly rent up to approximately $1,510. per month. (Did you get all that? I always try to make sure you guys are awake.)

My offer was turned down flat. And, I was not surprised. Because, it took way too long for the realtor to call me back after I’d submitted my offer.

Now, as if it weren’t bad enough that my offer was rejected, I sense that there is somehow more bad news. Well, just so happens my previous landlords’ references both came back “unfavorable.”

Here we go again. You know what I’m going to say, right?

You’ve got to be kidding me!

I ask the realtor to elaborate, since I cannot defend myself if I don’t know what was said. The realtor informs me that she asks all landlords a series of questions, one of which is, would you rent to the tenant again? Both of my previous landlords said that they would not rent to me again.

This is not at all surprising to me, because, hello! I wouldn’t rent from them again, either. Perfectly mutual, this.

I tell the realtor this and inform her that the reason they would not rent to me again has more to do with their responses to my entirely reasonable requests to simply keep their properties at an at-least-safe living standard.

The realtor has this whatever-lady-it-ain’t-gonna-help tone. She tells me that she’ll pass along what I’ve said and let me know.

I am like so disappointed. I finally find a place that I actually want to move into and look what happens.

A question: My Trusty Reader, how well do you know me? Well, regardless of your knowledge of F. Theresa’s ways, you’re going to know me a little better after this little tale.

Anyways, I call and boo-hoo to my aunt. My aunt doesn’t accept woe-is-me whining unless you’re also coming with a solution of sorts. I run my solution by her. What if I send the realtor an e-mail detailing some of the issues that I presented to my previous landlords and how they were received and handled by each?

My aunt agrees that this is a sane and possibly productive course of action. And, reminds me of some of the ex-landlords’ crazy antics that I had conveniently forgotten about.

E-mail sent, I await inevitable rejection. Whilst waiting, I continue looking at rental properties and, you guessed it: Not one place even comes close to the Waltham place. I just get more and more saddened as I search.

Finally, I hear from the realtor. And, I swear, it was like being on one of those shows where they start announcing the outcome and then, suddenly, you find out that you have to wait until the next episode. Rats!

She’s talking sooo slowly, saying, “Well, Theresa.” Major pausing going on.

She continues, “I got your e-mail.” Like come on lady! Spit it out. I’m like about to start screaming any second, for real, any second.

She says, “I shared your e-mail with the landlords, and . . .”

By now, since it’s taking way too long for her to inform me of a positive outcome, I know that I am completely out of luck—not that I’m ever in luck. And, April 30 is, at this point, less than a week away.

Conclusively, she says, “The landlords accepted your application.”

I say, “What?” Because, come on. She couldn’t have just said, after all the drawing of this thing out, that they accepted my rental app?

“Yes,” she affirms, “They accepted your application. They feel that having a good tenant who has good living standards is exactly the type of renter they want.”

OMG, I got the place! I cannot even contain myself. I almost shed a tear. The realtor is telling me that we need to schedule a time to sign the lease and so on. We do this.

I hate to tell you this, but this story is just starting. So, if you need to go grab a snack, use the bathroom, or hit record on the DVR, now is the time. Or, should I say, this story is about to get more interesting in the usual-F.Theresa way.

Are you back? Ready? Let us continue.

So . . . there I was sitting at the lease signing. The realtor is there and the landlord couple (and, wow, they seem sane enough). There’s a whole bunch of reading, initialing and signing going on.

This completed. I inform them that I really have to get going, because I, of course, have scheduled the movers to move that very same morning. As a matter of fact, my uncle is supervising the move as we speak; therefore, I was getting the keys just in time.

So, I get all moved in. (Let’s not discuss the move itself—an entire other story there—we’ll just save it for another time.)

First night. I’m sitting on the sofa, surrounded by my boxes, checking my work e-mail. I notice movement to my left. I glance down and there, big as day, pretty as a brown cow, is a good-sized mouse.

My first thought is, where is Xerxes (still missing you, Buddy) when I need him? My second thought is, I’m going need to call the landlord tomorrow.

No big deal. I am only scared to death of snakes. Mice don’t even faze me; however, I really don’t want the somewhat-cute little things running around with their little diseased bodies all over my stuff.

Next day. I call the landlord and inform her of my little night guest. (Or, am I the guest? A question I shouldn’t have asked.)

The landlord informs me that they know about the little critters (notice the usage of the plural form). The tenant on the first floor informed them a few days ago. Upon further investigation, they found a bucket of cat food (apparently used to feed the stray cats) and a bag of almost-all-mouse-eaten cat food (definitely used to feed the unapproved in-house cat). All of this from the previous now-long-gone tenant.

And, you wonder why many landlords are leery of us all and mostly insane?

She tells me that they’ve already called a pest control company, but there’s a bit of a back-up, since this region has recently had quite a lot of rain and subsequent flooding. And, lucky for me, the excessive rain has caused critters of all manner of speaking to come to the surface and live openly amongst us. And, she’s sure that the seemingly endless cat food was a heavy contributor in her property’s case. Great. In the interim, she’ll come and set some traps.

Second night. I arrive home. I notice the “humane” traps—the sticky kind. Hmm, I think, this could get very interesting. Nevertheless, I take up my usual sofa seat.

It really didn’t take but a few moments for the first little mouse to simply skate over the sticky trap and stare at me from across the room. This is rich. I realize that I am the guest. These mice own this place.

I look around for something, anything. You must understand that I’m so tired that I refuse to get up off the sofa. I reach down and throw one of my house shoes at one of my housemates. He/she/it scurries under the high back chair. Must not have been too welcoming under there, because it decides to come back out and glare at me again.

This I cannot abide. I mean, really! I throw my other house shoe and the mouse easily avoids the shoe that wouldn’t have harmed it anyway.

Forget this. I jump off the couch, shocking the mouse, not to mention myself. I use the box it just ran behind, due to my movement, and I slam the box against the wall.

I am instantaneously regretful. I peek behind the box. It is injured to the point of never going anywhere again.

Oh, no! What will I ever do? I cannot seem to gather the adrenaline necessary to complete the mouse-der (murder of a mouse).

Meanwhile, it’s making that squeaky mouse sound. I mean come on. I try not to step on ants. I take spiders outside, and ladybugs. What am I to do?

I truly can take no more of this squeaking. I let out a yelp and slam the box again. I peek. Yep, that did it and the poor thing’s guts prove it. Yuck! This is so much more than I signed on for. I am now a confirmed mouse-derer. Great. I leave a message for the landlord saying that there’s a dead mouse that needs removing, please.

Third night. I cannot even make it to my comfy sofa seat before three mice, playing tag it appears, scamper across the room. I’m like this is crazy and my rental offer was turned down? Really? And, now here I am with the real landlords. Man, can I ever get a break?

This, my third night, I don’t even need to muster up ire. I capture one under the box and assert my dominance as the true rent-payer. One down, two to go. Except, these buggers are quite fast. They find crannies I didn’t even know existed.

Fine, I have a seat. And, from my comfy sofa seat. I simply watch the mouse-derby. You would think that the dead mouse would give them pause, but no such luck.

Next day, I leave another need-to-come-remove-the-dead-mouse message. I get a response telling me that it shall be done and more traps will be set, not to mention that the pest control company is scheduled to come the next day. What about tonight, I opine.

Fourth night. I come home to a live mouse, its side stuck to the trap. He yelps in his squeaky voice as I walk by. This is the literal pits. It’s still early. So, I call the landlord and advise her that there’s a live one. Evidently, these so-called humane mouse traps will give the poor mouse time to be terrified out of its little mouse head, as it dehydrates to death. Wonderful. that is really humane. Not!

By now, I am so woe is me. Woe, woe, Woe! I take a seat on the sofa in my comfy place and listen to this poor thing struggle futilely, whilst its little apparently brain-dead compadres zip by him, blatantly ignoring his presence and mine.

Well, I’m sure I deserve this. I mean, I was crazy enough to fight for this place and pay $4,650. to be sitting in the new home that I declared undying love for. How could I possibly know that my real landlords were many, furry and four-footed? They weren’t at the lease signing (or were they?).

Meanwhile, from my comfy seat, I hear different sounds emanating from my stuck mouse-friend. He’s gotten way too loud. It sounds as though he’s dragging his sticky trap around. I go check him out. And, yes. Mr. Mouse (or Ms.) has, after four hours, managed to un-stick all of his body except for one leg.

Had this happened the first night, I would have most likely have just let said creature go on his merry mouse way. However, as you may recall, this is Night Four. Thus, I simply cannot allow this nearly-captured-now-escaping mouse to rejoin his buddies in their mouse-capade.

So, once again, I admittedly have had another F.Theresa-like beginning. Also, in F.Theresa-style, I shall not only endure the lovely dead-mice smell that wafts throughout my rental space, but I will soon be taking up complete and sole occupancy of said space—without my little mouse housemates.

Any ideas for that dead-mice-somewhere-in-the-walls smell?