New on the home front, tonight I came home to find two lightbulbs out in the upstairs lamp. I managed to find one new bulb, and proceeded to replace one of the dead ones.
That was my first mistake.
The lightbulb immediately blew, and when I tried to take it back out, the majority of the glass came off in my hand. My friends who were present advised me to cut the circuit before using pliers to remove the remaining half-bulb. Unfortunately, the circuit box is in another flat. So I had to call the landlord.
The landlord, drunk and disbelieving, insisted on coming upstairs and seeing for himself. He had me turn the light on and off. He then said, "There's no way there's any electricity running through that." Quality logic, that. And then, refusing any advice, including my proffered oven mitt, he stuck his bare hand up to the remaining half-bulb.
As we all sat there in shock, the landlord fidgeted with the glass until a small crunch was heard and the landlord said calmly, "Oh. Blood." Several small pieces of glass fell to the floor.
aAAAaah.
He then (continuing to fidget) proclaimed, "Oh, there's your problem; it's in too tight." No. No it's not.
After I disposed of what glass he had gotten out, I then asked him again to go break the circuit so I could use pliers like I was planning to in the first place. Ignoring me, he immediately stuck his hand back in the bulb case. I offered the mitt again, only to be told, "There's no electricity there." I said, "No, for the glass..." having given up on him knowing how electricity works. His reply, "Oh, I don't mind the blood." We do, landlord, we do.
After several moments of all of us just waiting for him to slash open something important or electrocute himself, he did actually manage to get the bulb out. Thanking him, I tried to get him out of the house at that point, but he insisted on finding two new bulbs for us. I told him to call me if he found bulbs, but please not to worry about it and I'd take care of it in the morning.
Ten minutes later, he called back, saying he found bulbs. He then had the gall to explain to me how to safely insert new bulbs.
Augh.
Just...augh.
Showing posts with label bucket. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bucket. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Saturday, August 18, 2012
Shovel
Another time that Walrus and I were off in another state, Owl came home to find a shovel leaning up against the fridge.
Yep. Just a shovel. And a dirty shovel, too; not even one she recognized.
Naturally, she texted me to ask about it, even though she'd been there more recently than I.
This time, as it happens, I had a guess as to what had happened, so my response was to ask whether or not we had a new screen door on the balcony. She checked; there was.
A few weeks previous, our landlord had asked us to keep the balcony door shut in case of squirrels. Normally, I'd simply agree; who wants wildlife in your kitchen? But since the balcony had no screen door, this made getting a breeze in the disgusting summer weather we were having rather difficult. He assured me he would get a new screen door in. Each week or so thereafter, I'd given him a call asking him about the door. Finally, I left a message saying that I wouldn't be able to get in touch because I would be out of cell range, and that he should call Owl about the door. Apparently he took the first part of this to heart, but ignored the second.
Which doesn't exactly explain why there was a dirty shovel in the kitchen. Clearly it was left by elves.
Flash back here to the bloody pillow story (see below). As it happens, despite the fact that the landlord claimed he had not come in our house, upon returning home, Walrus and I learned that, the very same day we left, the landlord had slipped in the snow and injured his head such that his ear was bleeding and he seemed disoriented. The landlord swore that he had gone straight to his floor, gone to bed for a bit, gone to the bathroom to wash up, and then been fine. Checking this against the evidence- door had been open when my friend came to take care of the cat the first time, closest bedroom to the door had been lain in with a head injury, bathroom light was on- it seems likely that, whether or not he remembers it, the landlord was in fact our mysterious elf.
So, no surprise, the landlord, and/or his buddy, had come in the apartment without telling anyone, installed the new door, picked up a shovel from somewhere to clear some of the junk from the balcony to make doing so easier, and left the shovel wherever was convenient. Oh, and left an empty six-pack Budweiser container near the balcony, too.
Naturally, he swears that his buddy did the installation with Owl present, handed her the shovel he found on the balcony, and never would ever drink on the job. Riiiiight.
Yep. Just a shovel. And a dirty shovel, too; not even one she recognized.
Naturally, she texted me to ask about it, even though she'd been there more recently than I.
This time, as it happens, I had a guess as to what had happened, so my response was to ask whether or not we had a new screen door on the balcony. She checked; there was.
A few weeks previous, our landlord had asked us to keep the balcony door shut in case of squirrels. Normally, I'd simply agree; who wants wildlife in your kitchen? But since the balcony had no screen door, this made getting a breeze in the disgusting summer weather we were having rather difficult. He assured me he would get a new screen door in. Each week or so thereafter, I'd given him a call asking him about the door. Finally, I left a message saying that I wouldn't be able to get in touch because I would be out of cell range, and that he should call Owl about the door. Apparently he took the first part of this to heart, but ignored the second.
Which doesn't exactly explain why there was a dirty shovel in the kitchen. Clearly it was left by elves.
Flash back here to the bloody pillow story (see below). As it happens, despite the fact that the landlord claimed he had not come in our house, upon returning home, Walrus and I learned that, the very same day we left, the landlord had slipped in the snow and injured his head such that his ear was bleeding and he seemed disoriented. The landlord swore that he had gone straight to his floor, gone to bed for a bit, gone to the bathroom to wash up, and then been fine. Checking this against the evidence- door had been open when my friend came to take care of the cat the first time, closest bedroom to the door had been lain in with a head injury, bathroom light was on- it seems likely that, whether or not he remembers it, the landlord was in fact our mysterious elf.
So, no surprise, the landlord, and/or his buddy, had come in the apartment without telling anyone, installed the new door, picked up a shovel from somewhere to clear some of the junk from the balcony to make doing so easier, and left the shovel wherever was convenient. Oh, and left an empty six-pack Budweiser container near the balcony, too.
Naturally, he swears that his buddy did the installation with Owl present, handed her the shovel he found on the balcony, and never would ever drink on the job. Riiiiight.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
The Bloody Pillow
As it happened, all three of us who live together have been out of town for the weekend. My housemate Owl happened to get back earlier than the rest of us, and this is what she found:
Her door, at the landing of the first flight of stairs, was open; I can tell you from personal memory that it was closed when we left. The light to the bathroom next to her door was on; it had been off. In her room, she noticed her fake sword was missing. The books and stuffed animals on her bed had been moved neatly to the side, and there was dirt and drops of blood on her sheets and a pool of it staining her pillow.
There are, to my knowledge, six people with keys to our apartment. Walrus and I are here, in a state far away. Owl was obviously not there for the duration. Our friend Arisbe has one kind of by accident, but she's also in a different state. The two people both in the same city and having a key are the landlord and my friend who is taking care of my cat.
First order of business, we contacted those two. The landlord claims not to have been in our apartment since last I was there with him. My friend taking care of the cat said that Owl's door had been open every time he'd been there, though he hadn't gone far enough in to notice the blood and dirt. The cat was fine and nothing obvious had been messed up- no outer doors or windows open, no footprints in the house, nothing missing. The window between when we left and the first time he was there is approximately 18 hours.
Second order of business was to contact the police. They found nothing I hadn't already gathered; the blood pattern sounds like a nosebleed, and there was no sign of forced entry or robbery. Either all the cop shows are paying off, or these police folk aren't any better at their job in person than I am FROM MILES AWAY. According to Owl, the officer who came to look around thinks that Walrus and I somehow had a drunken revel (we don't drink) and forgot to clean up only Owl's room of all things. Did I mention that we are in a different state?
Walrus theorized that it was elves. When we told this to Owl, she said that this is what the police seemed to think, too.
Drat those elves.
Her door, at the landing of the first flight of stairs, was open; I can tell you from personal memory that it was closed when we left. The light to the bathroom next to her door was on; it had been off. In her room, she noticed her fake sword was missing. The books and stuffed animals on her bed had been moved neatly to the side, and there was dirt and drops of blood on her sheets and a pool of it staining her pillow.
There are, to my knowledge, six people with keys to our apartment. Walrus and I are here, in a state far away. Owl was obviously not there for the duration. Our friend Arisbe has one kind of by accident, but she's also in a different state. The two people both in the same city and having a key are the landlord and my friend who is taking care of my cat.
First order of business, we contacted those two. The landlord claims not to have been in our apartment since last I was there with him. My friend taking care of the cat said that Owl's door had been open every time he'd been there, though he hadn't gone far enough in to notice the blood and dirt. The cat was fine and nothing obvious had been messed up- no outer doors or windows open, no footprints in the house, nothing missing. The window between when we left and the first time he was there is approximately 18 hours.
Second order of business was to contact the police. They found nothing I hadn't already gathered; the blood pattern sounds like a nosebleed, and there was no sign of forced entry or robbery. Either all the cop shows are paying off, or these police folk aren't any better at their job in person than I am FROM MILES AWAY. According to Owl, the officer who came to look around thinks that Walrus and I somehow had a drunken revel (we don't drink) and forgot to clean up only Owl's room of all things. Did I mention that we are in a different state?
Walrus theorized that it was elves. When we told this to Owl, she said that this is what the police seemed to think, too.
Drat those elves.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Story the First: Taking the Bucket
Before we begin, allow me to introduce myself. I am Walrus, and Walrus is me. Along with my below-posted co-conspiritor in blog-authorship, I attended a well known liberal arts university. The story I am about to relate concerns one of my associates during Sophomore year. In accord with our stated policy of thinly disguised names for the protection of the innocent, the guilty, the insane, and likely-to-threaten-with-legal-action, this bastion of learning shall be known as PCU, and he shall be known as Gabriel.
At PCU, the Residential Life office in general, and the housing selection process in particular are irritating monstrosities. The vagaries thereof, and travails of myself and mine as a result will likely be the subject of many stories yet to come. For the moment, suffice to say that four of us ended up in two double rooms at either end of the hall in an aging and poorly maintained house.
Following some heavy snowfall, Gabriel returned to his room to find that his roof had sprung a leak, and water was dripping onto his desk. Since said desk held his computer, his papers, his books, and all manner of other possessions subject to water-damage, he was understandably perturbed. Once he got over being perturbed, he decided that something had to be done. He went forth into the hallway and procured a bucket. You know the sort - large, gray, and made of a rubbery plastic. Also did he obtain duct tape, and several black plastic garbage bags. Of these, he fashioned a chute to convey the water from the leak in the ceiling unto the bucket. The immediate issue (water falling on desk) being dealt with, he called PCU Physical Plant department. These folks might reasonably be expected to repair damaged buildings, he supposed.
As it turns out, PCU Physical Plant is some combination of lazy, incompetent and/or inefficient, and for several weeks their response is easily summarized as 'none whatsoever'. It was a wet season, and the snow and rain continued to fall every few days. The leak continued to do its thing, and the bucket-and-chute contraption likewise continued its function. Finally, when we'd given up on any official reaction to the issue, an agent of Physical Plant arrived at Gabriel's room. This gentleman, by sight, differed from the standard janitor in one important particular - he was the proud owner of a bulky walkie-talkie.
Upon entering Gabriel's room, said communication device is immediately in his hand, and into it he says, "Yep, I'm here. Shouldn't take long."
He surveys the bucket contraption and opines to Gabriel thusly: "Pretty nice setup you got here."
Gabriel responds that yes, it probably is, and is there anything he, the janitorial sort, could do about it?
The fellow contemplates the bucket a bit longer, and then responds in the affirmative. Out comes the walkie-talkie (clearly this man's most prized possession). He says this into it: "Yep. I'm taking the bucket. All right."
Gabriel is probably convinced he misheard, but the man goes to the bucket, carefully peels off the tape holding it to the chute, and begins to lug it out the door. About halfway through the door, he turns back and, in the spirit of one who has had an epiphany, says "You know, when it rains next, that's probably going to leak again." And then he leaves.
Ever afterward, among those of us who know this tale (yourself now among them, esteemed blog-reader!), the phrase 'taking the bucket' has meant "'Solving' a problem by making it worse, in the most bizzare manner possible". We encourage you to use it when you think it is needed.
At PCU, the Residential Life office in general, and the housing selection process in particular are irritating monstrosities. The vagaries thereof, and travails of myself and mine as a result will likely be the subject of many stories yet to come. For the moment, suffice to say that four of us ended up in two double rooms at either end of the hall in an aging and poorly maintained house.
Following some heavy snowfall, Gabriel returned to his room to find that his roof had sprung a leak, and water was dripping onto his desk. Since said desk held his computer, his papers, his books, and all manner of other possessions subject to water-damage, he was understandably perturbed. Once he got over being perturbed, he decided that something had to be done. He went forth into the hallway and procured a bucket. You know the sort - large, gray, and made of a rubbery plastic. Also did he obtain duct tape, and several black plastic garbage bags. Of these, he fashioned a chute to convey the water from the leak in the ceiling unto the bucket. The immediate issue (water falling on desk) being dealt with, he called PCU Physical Plant department. These folks might reasonably be expected to repair damaged buildings, he supposed.
As it turns out, PCU Physical Plant is some combination of lazy, incompetent and/or inefficient, and for several weeks their response is easily summarized as 'none whatsoever'. It was a wet season, and the snow and rain continued to fall every few days. The leak continued to do its thing, and the bucket-and-chute contraption likewise continued its function. Finally, when we'd given up on any official reaction to the issue, an agent of Physical Plant arrived at Gabriel's room. This gentleman, by sight, differed from the standard janitor in one important particular - he was the proud owner of a bulky walkie-talkie.
Upon entering Gabriel's room, said communication device is immediately in his hand, and into it he says, "Yep, I'm here. Shouldn't take long."
He surveys the bucket contraption and opines to Gabriel thusly: "Pretty nice setup you got here."
Gabriel responds that yes, it probably is, and is there anything he, the janitorial sort, could do about it?
The fellow contemplates the bucket a bit longer, and then responds in the affirmative. Out comes the walkie-talkie (clearly this man's most prized possession). He says this into it: "Yep. I'm taking the bucket. All right."
Gabriel is probably convinced he misheard, but the man goes to the bucket, carefully peels off the tape holding it to the chute, and begins to lug it out the door. About halfway through the door, he turns back and, in the spirit of one who has had an epiphany, says "You know, when it rains next, that's probably going to leak again." And then he leaves.
Ever afterward, among those of us who know this tale (yourself now among them, esteemed blog-reader!), the phrase 'taking the bucket' has meant "'Solving' a problem by making it worse, in the most bizzare manner possible". We encourage you to use it when you think it is needed.
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