Wherein I win a battle (but maybe not the war) with a landlord

Well, you DO live in the college area…

This was told to me during a “conversation” I had with my neighbor’s landlord yesterday; apparently living near a college is justification for letting his tenants live in near squalor. The only thing missing is some sort of animal feces.

I don’t understand this justification. The college area isn’t a license for being an intolerable neighbor; this is the college area, not the feral kids’ area.

When we were quite young, my husband purchased the house we live in today. Admittedly, we had no business buying a house but the banks were giving away loans like oxygen and my husband thought it would be a great investment opportunity since the business he owns deals in property.

And then life happened.

Thankfully, life means that Jerry’s business has continued to grow in such a way that our single-family home is not something we want to take on as a rental through his business, especially if the rental market is going to bring the kind of inconsiderate, self-absorbed sods like we’ve lived next to for the past year. The personal financial risk of having this house remain vacant for even a month would be a burden I am uninterested in taking.

So, until we can sell the house and be rid of any ties to it, we remain living in the college area. The same house I’ve lived in since I was twenty years old.

I’ve been a college kid in this house.  I know exactly what being a college kid in the college area means. This house has seen things that make me grateful the walls cannot talk. There are hazy memories I only partially remember embedded here.  

This is also the house where Jerry told me he loved me for the first time. This is the house that Jerry and I changed from some college kids’ party house to a home. This is the first house in which our non-biological daughter has felt like she is wanted and belongs.

We’ve been loud, crazy, and probably even downright obnoxious in this house once upon a time. I’ll even admit that at one point our backyard housed a variety of toys including an inflatable waterslide and a trampoline, a combination that, when mixed with alcohol, can only make me thankful no one lost a limb here.

But the things that never happened in this house, and never would have happened in this house when we were at our craziest, are the things that have been allowed to happen next door.

The people next door have continually parked in front of my driveway, blocking the entire path with our cars on it. Repeated door-knocking and queries as to whether or not the car parked illegally belonged to them or a friend of theirs were ignored. Then, one of them called me a bitch and tried to confront my husband when I had his car towed so I could leave. My own house.

Our neighbors had a Christmas tree rotting in their front yard for upwards of 8 months before they chucked it into their backyard despite the fact that my city has curb side tree recycling until February!

They once had a crab boil in their front yard. Nothing wrong with that. Except they left the carcasses in the front yard for weeks.

Our neighbors never, I mean never, take the trashcans to the curb. This has been the biggest hassle. Their cans are full so they toss the newest refuse all over, near-ish the trashcans, which are visible from the street. At one point, my husband was taking out their trashcans for them in an attempt to alleviate the garbage pile. We even loaned them our spare trashcan for over a month. They never actually took the can to the curb so it was just another piled high with debris.

Eventually, this pile began spilling over onto my yard. I should be clear: I’m not complaining about a stray red cup or a beer bottle here and there. This is weeks worth of 6 guys’ waste, on top of weeks worth of 6 guys’ waste. I wish I could turn that into a funny joke, but I’m just too angry to think of one. When they started dumping their junk onto the grass on my property and I went over there to get rid of it and stuck my hand in a pile of soggy In-and-Out fries, I’d had enough.

I called their landlord for the first time at this point, a tiny man in designer shoes with an ego bigger than Kim Kardashian’s. Jerry and I made attempts to deal directly with the tenants for all previous issues; I had previously never contacted him to complain about the Christmas tree, the crabs, the driveway blocking, or any of this other nonsense because I thought college kids would be mature enough to be neighbors in a way that was, I dunno, reflecting of being admitted to a competitive institution for higher-level education. 

Silly me.

So, having washed the rancid ketchup from my hands, I called this guy—supposedly a professional brokers associate with a reputable, national real estate company and president of a very small, just starting management company.

His flippant response was my complaint was, "Well, you DO live in the College Area.”

Yes. I do. And I have since I was a college kid. And I refuse to accept that living in this area means it is now acceptable, apparently even expected, to treat a property and your neighbors’ properties with a blatant disregard for anyone but yourself.

Some things I do expect and even tolerate as part of the package deal that is living near college-kids: loud, terrible music on a Thursday night because you don’t have class on Friday; groups of girls that can’t walk in their heels tramping along to the next house-party when the guys at the previous one get “creepy”; hollers from a guy streaking down the street after the Lakers win a basketball championship; cheers of excited disbelief that you made that EPIC beer pong shot for the 14th time; really anything that involves good-natured, even if semi-inconvenient for me, college experiences.

All I ask of my neighbors is that they don’t park in front of my driveway and don’t leave crap all over the property.

That’s it. I don’t even care that you have illegal substances growing on your roof. Just don’t trash the place and don’t trap me on my own property.

So, Mr. wanna-be property manager ended up being no match for me. After a—let’s just say quite heated—conversation in which I listed the laws he was breaking by allowing this to continue and the recourse you can take against a nuisance neighbor (suing for damages up to $7500! Sounds fun but I’m absolutely not interested in getting money), as well as some inappropriate language, that little man in his expensive shoes and Ed Hardy T-shirt came over and picked up all the trash himself and loaded it into a truck to haul away. This includes every last stray French fry and ketchup packet.

The good news is I found out these losers are moving soon! Here’s to hoping the newest batch of renters next door know basic parking laws and can take a trash can out here and there. 

Reflecting on the class of 2010's first college semester

I miss the class of 2010. I really love my students this year, too, but each class has a unique personality. The class of 2010 sometimes called me mom, put up with me when I had swine flu and was so medicated I was basically stoned while lecturing on the Oedipus complex (fun!), convinced me to dance with them at their Prom, and rallied behind each other through all the good and the bad that year. The class of 2010 wrote me notes, discussed LOST at length with me, knew about secret socks, and taught me the balance between being a teacher and a human being. As many of last year's seniors wrap up their first semesters of college, I wonder what new life experiences they have now that they have been out of their element for half a high school year. I've written about being 18 before, but being a freshmen in college is such an amazing time. The only time that was better was being a senior in college. I'd never want to go back to high school but I'd absolutely go back to college.

Living in the dorms was a strange experience. I had never shared a room with anyone before and I liked the company a lot. I loved how the dorms were constantly alive with activity. Someone was always awake; you were never alone.

Then, I got sick my freshmen year. Really, really sick. I was violently ill all night before an 8 A.M final; I spent the night puking into a trash can (On a side-note: Remember when 8 was just so early?). I know I kept my poor roommate up all night, too, because I really call the dinosaurs when I dry-heave. When I dragged myself to the shower the next morning, my reflection revealed two solid black eyes; nearly every capillary in my eye-sockets had burst. I was a hot-mess, minus the hot. By the afternoon, I couldn't lift myself out of bed and the resident advisor called 911. Twelve EMTs came to help. "Help" consisted of telling me my lungs were tight and my breathing was shallow, as if I was unaware of my asthma. Then they drove me .25 miles with no lights nor sirens and charged me 700 dollars. So helpful.

The rumors about my hospital trip were hilarious. When I returned, people looked at me sideways. They heard I had alcohol poisoning, that I had an eating disorder and -so awesome- that I had some sort of psychotic break and collapsed in the stairwell.

None of this was true, obviously. At least, I don't feel like I had a psychotic break. It was fun to be known as the girl who went away in an ambulance. Once  I clarified that I just had had the flu, it seemed anti-climactic. Sorry being on the brink of death with the flu went out style in the middle ages. I always was a step behind.

I did meet a lot of new people this way. Who knew nearly dying would help me make so many connections in my new city?

I really hope that the class of 2010 enjoyed their first semester and that they have some great stories to tell. My only hope is that their stories don't involve near death experiences, 700 dollar uninsured ambulance rides, or pretending to be cacti on Campanile Drive.