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Archive for the ‘Landlord’ Category

Apologies for the light posting. Since Monday, Leigh Ann and I have been traipsing through Greater Los Angeles trying to find somewhere suitable for Nate’s first few years. (For why our current apartment sucks, click here.) At this point, we’ve got it narrowed down to two places, both with something in common: they’re in the valley.

For those of you not familiar with California, “the valley” is the San Fernando Valley, a 260 square mile flatland bordered by 6 different mountain ranges. It’s where you end up if you walk up past the Hollywood sign and fall down the other side. I kid you not, that’s the way it’s regarded around here. You know that “farm” your parents told you your Golden Retriever was going to when he got real sick that one time? Well, that’s the valley. Where coolness goes to die.

Lucky for us, our coolness is already dead. We wear three-day-old clothes, for God’s sake, and smell vaguely of milk. But we’re about to get duly rewarded. With hardwood floors. A second bedroom. A den. Two and a half baths. A fireplace. A private patio. Granite counter tops. And a washer & dryer. All for the same price we’re paying in Weho.

As J. Alfred Prufrock almost said:

I grow old . . .
I grow old . . .
I shall move to the valley, oh!

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You know you’re under some stress when your wife is 5 days past due and that isn’t even the lede.

The lede is that I’m writing this from a hotel room. What happened, you ask? Did I finally get sick of the in-laws? Did I stand on the couch, bang my slipper on the coffee table, and tell everyone that I couldn’t stand another god damned minute of Dancing With the Stars?

Only in my dreams.

No, today, after getting home from our doctor’s appointment (more on that in a moment), Leigh Ann and I discovered that our apartment had flooded. And I don’t mean just clogged sinks and some water in the bathroom. I mean puddles on the floor. In the living room. In the kitchen. In the bedroom. Everywhere. Have a look:

So, courtesy of the Rodeway Inn, we await the carpet cleaner’s 8 AM arrival. I’ll have more to say about this fart stick of an experience (and about the idiot apartment manager who helped caused it), but I’ve already downed a couple Ambien and fear the direction of my prose.

As for our doctor’s appointment today, there was small but steady progress. Leigh Ann is still 1 cm dilated, but the doctor recorded (for the first time) several contractions on the monitor. If you’ll excuse the sports metaphor, I’m calling this a 3 yard gain. It ain’t the kind of play you’ll see on Sportscenter. But if you do it every down, eventually you’ll cross the goal line.

And, man, do I feel like spiking the ball.

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