I realize homeowners have mortgages to pay, hot water tanks to replace, lawns to mow...but being a renter is no Sunday walk in the park, either. Whereas home-owning folks can decide to do whatever they choose to in the way of repairs, renters are at the mercy of their landlords.
As you may have heard me make mention of before, my husband and I happen to rent a charming two bedroom apartment from Smeagol from the Lord of the Rings. It's a cute apartment, aside from a few minor problems, the most glaring one being our bathroom.
I think my Dad said it best when he described our shower as a "science experiment."
I admit our shower is pretty revolting, but it's not from a lack of cleaning on my part. I have bleached the hell out of that bathroom, all to no avail.
I can't count how many times I've scrubbed, disinfected and cursed the ancient, filthy tiles lining my shower. This shower is permanently stained from at least 50 years worth of use. It seems these tiles have existed since before time began. I keep saying one of them should really write a memoir: "Withstanding the test of time: one tile's time-honored chronicle of mold and redemption."
Last year I asked Smeagol to remedy this situation and he complied, but not before having the gall to say, "Wow, I wouldn't take a shower in there."
Smeagol's answer was to bring someone in to re-tile the bathroom. As you can imagine, my husband and I were ecstatic. The Heavens opened, rainbows appeared, a choir of angels sang...
Not surprisingly, there was a catch: Smeagol opted to have the top half of the moldy shower wall tiled, but chose to let the prehistoric tiles on the bottom half remain.
Why would anyone in their right mind elect to have half of a shower tiled? Your answer is as good as mine. I'm really at a loss to justify such an extraordinary move.
I suppose one explanation could be this: drugs are bad, people, drugs are bad.
Case in point:
Glorious, pristine tiles above, besmirched, rotting ones below!
It's truly a miracle of sorts: new tile and old coming together to live in peace and harmony, within my little shower.
I also have to add, these are the after pictures. (As in after my parents brought me miracle spray and helped me to remove a good deal of the grime. Hubby couldn't believe how "clean" it looked!)
I don't mean to sound like a brat, I just watched an Oprah episode the other day where people were forced to collect their water in dirty jugs and it made me cry. I'm not trying to be ungrateful for my grungy bathroom...rather, I've taken on more of an air of perplexed awe.
I've been a little gun-shy of deep-cleaning since that time last year when I attempted to de-slime my shower. Basically I spent an entire Saturday afternoon spraying the tiles with a bleachy solution, waiting a while, and then throwing cups of water onto the tiles to rinse. Sadly, it was mostly for naught, since the grime was unmovable. This mold has a mind of its own.
Later that day, as I lay resting and nursing my bleach-induced headache, the phone rang. It was Smeagol.
"Uh, Sarah, I had to shut the water off. There's a leak, there's water downstairs in the hallway. We have to wait for the plumber to arrive before we turn it back on."
I was polite: "A leak? Really? You know, I'm not running the water now, but I was cleaning the shower all day...that's strange...maybe that has something to do with it?
Smeagol was not convinced. We would wait for the plumber. Great.
"When will the plumber be able to come?" I asked.
"Oh, sometime tomorrow, hopefully. If not, the day after that."
In my experience, every NY landlord has some relative or friend of a friend that they turn to in these circumstances. Why can't they just hire a freaking professional from the Yellow Pages? I mean, I'm no electrician but I'm pretty certain my refrigerator should not be plugged into an extension cord.
The next morning our plumber, a dead ringer for Joe Pesci, arrived, hammer in hand. Warning: If a plumber enters your home and the only tool he appears to have with him is a hammer, please be wary. This is never a good sign.
Joe Pesci concluded there was definitely a leak and he would go downstairs to the hallway to bang holes in the ceiling until he determined the source. Oh dear.
As my husband and I sat listening to the banging, the idea once again occurred to me: Could all of this have something to do with me cleaning the shower yesterday after all?
I yelled down into the hallway: "Um, I was rinsing my shower yesterday, splashing water onto it...do you think the water could've just dripped down through the hole in the wall?"
That's right, I forgot to mention the HOLE IN THE WALL OF MY BATHROOM. It's been there since the time Joe Pesci ripped out our sink (while my in-laws and a German foreign exchange student were visiting) on New Year's Day, 2006. I have to add that Mr. Pesci replaced the sink lop-sided, so there is an ever-present pool of water that collects daily upon our sinktop. Smeagol advised us to "wipe it with a cloth.")
I could hear Smeagol and Joe Pesci discussing this new and vital piece of information. Smeagol's voice echoed throughout the hallway: "She never said anything about cleaning, this is the first I'm hearing about it..."
"Yes, I did, yesterday on the phone!" All of my ladylike manners had long since left the building.
Smeagol disagreed: "Well, she's saying she told me, but..."
It turned out the hole was most definitely the cause of the problem. The water had dripped downstairs while I was splashing the bleachy tiles with a plastic Yankee's cup filled with water. (Frigging Yankees! Always causin' trouble with yer A-Rods and yer Giambis and yer plastic cups...)
Smeagol came upstairs, patched the hole in my bathroom, and left. They never did patch the hole in the ceiling of the hallway, but I suppose we've grown accustomed to it by now.
The hole and I have actually developed a nice repartee. Sometimes on my way out the door I call out, "See ya later, hole!"
"See ya later, yourself!" It seems to reply.
Ah, Rental, Sweet Rental.
You forgot to mention the industrial toilet that you have to kick with your foot in order to flush. Just like in a public restroom. Only cleaner. Maybe.
Posted by: Jenna | March 28, 2007 at 07:01 AM
I keep telling you, just because it's industrial doesn't mean you have to flush with your foot. Just wash your hands afterwards.
Posted by: The Odd Broad | March 28, 2007 at 08:26 PM
No, it doesn't feel right to flush it with my hand. It is unnatural.
Posted by: Jenna | March 29, 2007 at 08:54 PM