Atlas

A heart of gold, he loves me, flaws and all. Without him I'd be lost. Never complaining, always worrying but never letting on.  I love him more than he knows, more than I can describe in words. He is Atlas, holding the weight of our wold on his shoulders.

An Exercise in Healing

At my last head shrink session (yes, I'm in therapy), I was asked to make a list. To put down my thoughts about why I have low self esteem and why I devalue myself. I could have taken the easy route and just scratched the surface. Some superficial boilerplate responses. As I started down that path, I realized that easy won't get me anywhere. You can't come to peace if you aren't truthful and honest about yourself. If that were the case, big pharma would take a huge hit to their business in anti-depression and anti-anxiety medications.

It's hard, really, to pinpoint exactly when it all started. I remember being a very precocious child. Very curious about life and the world around me. Never satisifed, much to my parents exacerbation, with a 'because I said so' response to my numerous questions. At 4 years, I walked up to strangers on the beach exclaiming "I'm 4-years-old and I'm smart."

By 8, I was hustling the watch sellers in New York City. My spoils, 4 watches for the price of one. I was confident, self aware and in some ways, mature for my age.I talked at an early age, and as my mother has reminded me, I have not shut up since. Fascinated by books, I read at an even earlier age and as my grandmother tells me, I could always be found tucked away reading. Where I was, a book was not far behind (a fact that has not changed to this day).

I read above my grade level. I knew words beyond my age. In so many ways, I felt ages older than my classmates and by 5th grade this difference became socially unacceptable behavior for a pre-teen looking for acceptance. Not only did I feel older than my contemporaries, but I felt empathetic for people around me. I became a fixer, seeking out other outcasts and yet unable to help or fix myself.

By Junior High and High School, I settled into a niche of friends, most of whom were in grades above my own. I was comfortable speaking with adults and yet so unable to relate to those my own age. I didn't understand how people children who did not know me could be so mean and spiteful. I didn't understand why or how people were mean to other humans for no reason other than because they could. At times, I felt crushed and consumed by the thought of such unabashed and unnecissary meanness.

I survived High School mostly because of a very small group of close friends. I survived because I had music as an outlet. I survived because my parents and brother told me they loved me. I survived because I knew in college I would be away from the small-minded, small-time and small-town people.

I did not walk away without battle scars, without parts of me irevocably changed. The fixer in me compartmentalized the 'broken' and 'hurt' me. If I helped others I didn't have to think about my own pain. That unconcious act snowballed into part of who I am today. A giver who gave until there was nothing left. It worked for a long time. Except it didn't really work, because if it did we would not be here talking about this today.

We've only just begun to unravel and untangle this one part of who I am today. As I look at my 'homework' and see the life-altering events and reasons that shaped my sense of self, I'm satisfied knowing that I am starting to head in the right direction. I know, when this is all said and done, that this journey towards healing is worth it, I am worth it. I am loved.

Fuck You Fibro

It's funny, I've attempted to update this blog for several weeks now. It's not for lack of things happening in my life that has kept me from blogging. In fact, I've started and stopped several times to write something. The words are just stuck in my head. A result, no doubt, of fibrofog that seems to be coming around more often these days.

It's the same routine, change in meds, change in dosages. A slippery slope that we keep teetering on each visit. Too much of one medicine makes my nerves hyper aware, too little and I have no relief. I think this would be so much more manageable if I knew what makes the fibro flare up. It's not like I know that a+b = flareup. It's not so concrete.

Really though, I just want my life back. I'm normally extroverted but lately I haven't felt so social outside of my own house. It's just easier that way. Getting out sometimes is a chore and I can't always predict when I'll have a good day. They're few and far-between and that can lead to not being such a good friend.

Just started Aqua therapy. Being in the warm water is less stressful on my nerves and takes some of the strain off of my muscles. Who knows, this aqua therapy thing could really help. It at least offers some relief from pain. There's nothing like getting into 90+ degree water to ease these nerves of mine. The temporary relief is worth it though.

G

I miss you more than I can bear some days. What I wouldn't give to have those five months one more time. Five weeks, five days, five minutes, just one more time to tell you how much I love you. I see you, every night, in my dreams. I wake, arms heavy but empty. I'm sorry you did not have the life that you deserved; but I have been forever changed by the brief time you were here with me.

My sweet boy, I never thought that I would love something so unconditionally, so purely. I loved you the moment I saw you, the moment you first cried, the first time I held you and the last time even more. I'm sorry that I was not there for your last breath. I would give everything to have been there, so you would know that I was there, so you could feel my love as you left this life.

I take comfort in knowing that I will see you someday. I write this now, the words forever imprinted on my heart. I love you more than words, more than the universe my beautiful boy.

Teenage Wasteland

I grew up in a very small town, in what most people called the armpit of Pennsylvania, where the state meets Maryland and Delaware. The bucolic farm fields and lazy 3-light town left little to do by means of entertainment. In fact, when cow-tipping and loitering became tiresome, one found themselves on a 45-minute car ride to greater things like movie-theatres and shopping malls.

In fact, one often found themselves crossing state lines twice in pursuit of something other than what O-Town (the place I lived, not the very bad boy-band) had to offer. Small-town meant limited opportunity for employment. Teens often found that the three major employers were 2 fast-food joints and a grocery store. Wanting more and at the suggestion of a friend; I found myself on a daily commute to Amish-Country. Smack dab in the middle, in fact.

What better, to educate the masses on the lives of the Amish, was ironically a theme-park. Yes, the Amish, who shunned all forms of modern life and technology were represented by a roller-coaster, game-filled 'amusement' park for children. While most people chose to work in the park as a ride operator or in the games or food booths; I chose to work in the Gift Shop thinking that of the employment positions, Gift Shop would require the least effort and would be the least likely to put me in with the throngs of crying, hyper, temper-tantrum throwing children. BIG MISTAKE.

The Gift Shop was located in the Castle (yes, Dutch Wonderland, an Amish Theme Park had a castle, moat, dragon and 'roller coaster' named Sky Princess). The Castle was the ONLY entrance into the park. So while the quiet, polite children entered the park in the morning; they were replaced with screaming, spitting, demon-children at the end of the day. These spawns of Satan would descend on a recently stocked and straightened display like locusts and in a matter of seconds have it destroyed and the nearest Gift Shop employee in near mental-breakdown.

Parents, whose cherubic children turned demon, were haggard and tired after a day in the sun riding dated theme park rides. Strollers that once carried happy children were now filled with the spoils of the carnival games. These strollers that now turned the already tight quarters of the gift shop into mazes booby trapped with sticky, dirty children. Displays meant to attract children became death traps for the poor souls working in the Gift Shop.

I routinely found myself dodging bouncy super balls, weaving through a gauntlet of hula hoops and jumping to avoid the snap of bull-whips and pop guns at the cowboy stand. Keeping a well-stocked and orderly gift shop was a near Sisyphean attempt once the park closed. The last-minute park goers were shuffled into the Gift Shop, which conveniently was open an hour later than the park.

Considered Ambassadors to the park we often fielded questions that most times bordered on pure idiocy. 'What time do the Amish go home?' They don't, that is actually how they live. 'Why don't they have televisions?' 'How do you audition to be an Amish?'. 'Where do I get an Amish Costume?' 'Where is the beach in PA, the one by Ocean City Maryland?' Yeah, I looked at him the same way too. PA, the land-locked state with Oceanfront beaches.

This job that left me exhausted, that tested my patience, was not without perks. My name badge afforded me something invaluable to a teenager living in the middle of nowhere. In addition to free entrance to the very park that I worked, I payed half-price at the movie theatre that was adjacent to the park. Most importantly though, my name badge awarded me and one lucky friend half-priced tickets to Hershey Park and Dorney Park. The grown-up versions of Dutch Wonderland.

As the beginning of the summer-season approached I would question my sanity as I signed up for 3 months of torture, the long and windy back road trip filled with molasses slow horse and buggies, closing shifts only to come back the next day to open. Each time, I agreed. Dug out the pleated-front blue khaki pants and blue and white striped shirt. I laced my white and blue sneakers and attached my name tag and prepared to enter the insanity. All in the name of a boredom free summer.

Crazier

To give an apartment complex a sense of community, it's often the role of the leasing staff and property manager to schedule and plan events that will bring the residents together. I've done events from cookie exchanges around the holidays, pot-luck BBQs in the summer, pizza night, movie night at the pool and monthly breakfasts. It allows residents who might not meet otherwise to get to know each other. Plus, who doesn't like free food? In fact, one resident liked free food so much he earned himself a nickname among staff.

Tater Salad
Most of the picnics, BBQs and Pot-Lucks that I hosted over the summers had a basic menu with variations based on what looked interesting at the store. However, I always had potato salad. The area the apartment community was located in was primarily Pennsylvania Dutch. The PA Dutch eat potato salad with everything. To prepare, I would always go to the local Bulk Foods store and get 2 1-gallon containers of Potato Salad.

Tater Salad always showed up to events at least 15 minutes before they started. Which meant that he would plop himself down right in the middle of things while we were trying to set up. As soon as the potato salad hit the table he would ask if he could start eating. Before any other resident arrived, Tater Salad would have had at least two plates filled with potato salad. I'm not talking about small party plates either. He'd wolf down at least a half-gallon before anyone else had the chance to arrive.

Not only was tater salad the first to arrive but he was the last to leave. He commandeered every conversation at the parties. He was loud, borderline obnoxious and pretty much clueless to those around him. As we would clean up at the end of the party, Tater Salad made sure to stick around long enough to beg for the leftovers. So, any cooked and uneaten burgers and hotdogs went home with him. As did any food that would spoil between the end of the party and the weekend. He always made out like a bandit so much so that other residents were left with little to take home with them.

Tater Salad wasn't just obsessed with Potato Salad. Any food that we had he wanted his share and then some. Here are some classics:

Discount Pizza Night: For resident appreciation week, I negotiated a discounted price for large pizzas for the residents of the community with a local chain pizza company. So rather than $8 per large cheese pizza, I got them for $5 and charged the residents $2. Residents had to call in their reservation and pay the day before the delivery. (It was quite impressive to have 50+ pizzas sitting in my office waiting for delivery) We, the staff, personally delivered the pizzas. You can't beat $4 for 2 large pizzas! Tater Salad, wanting as much as he could get ordered 4. Thinking he was having guests over, I didn't make a big deal about it. However, when I delivered his pizzas it was just him. He proudly told me that this was his breakfast, lunch and dinner for the next month.

Breakfast to Go Another resident appreciation event, the office staff put together brown-bag breakfasts with pastries, granola bars, fruit and juice. We gave notice to the residents that we would be at the entrance to the communities between 6am and 8am passing out breakfast as they leave for work. The idea was that we would catch them as they were in their cars leaving for work. With 5 minutes to go, we were packing up the breakfasts that weren't delivered. Through the morning fog we see someone walking. As the figure gets closer and closer, we see that it's Tater Salad. He knows that time is up and that there will be extras. I prepare his breakfast and as I pass it to him he asks 'Is that all?'

A little stunned, I say that there is quite a bit in the bag. He says, 'no, where's my leftovers? You've got to have extras.' I tell him, yes there are some extras but I planned on keeping some in the office for those leaving for work a little bit later than we would be out at the entrance. He asks me how long I was keeping them after that. I say 11:00, then we'll see what's left.

Sure enough, at 11:00 on the dot, in walks Tater Salad holding a canvas bag open waiting for his goodies.

Tater Salad also showed up in the office at least once a day to browse the snacks and beverages I had sitting out for prospects. Every day he'd come in and announce 'I'm here to do my daily shopping'. One of the maintenance staff asked him one day, why it was that he always insisted on taking home leftovers and more than others normally took (often times he decimated entire foods so that others didn't have any or only had very little.) His response was that if we didn't want him to eat it, we shouldn't offer it. When asked why he didn't share with others he said that he didn't like anyone else enough to share.

So as it turns out, we were not only his grocery store but his personal caterers and everyone else was just there for his entertainment purposes. That attitude was not shocking, especially after an incident where his rent check bounced. He stormed into the office and screamed at me because his check bounced telling me that it was the responsibility of the company to make sure that the check didn't bounce. He demanded to speak to someone over my head and that he'd have me fired. Not only that but I was taking advantage of a poor old man.

Puh-lease. Not only did I have proof in his lease that it was the residents responsibility to pay rent and assure that all funds were accessible (in other words common sense); but I also told him that if he didn't have the money to pay rent, he shouldn't write me a bad check. Because not only would it result in the start of the eviction process but that he could be reported to the police. He stormed out of the office saying he was going to sue and have my job. The next morning I found a money order for his rental payment and fees in the lock box.

I'm not sure what happened to Tater Salad after I left that position. If I recall correctly, he bounced yet another check and pulled the same antics. A week later the eviction process was started. So, whoever out there has the pleasure of calling Tater Salad a resident, do I feel sorry for you!


**on a side note, if I had a penny for every time a resident has threatened to
call my boss, have my job, sue me or question whether or not I have a soul (true story, by the way) I'd be a very rich person! It's amazing who the blame gets passed to when a resident is at fault for something. this itself is worthy of it's own post.

Crazy

What they don't tell you when you get in the leasing industry is that not only do you have to perform the administrative duties of leasing a property; but you have to be an (unwilling) confidante, sometimes friend, mediator, referee, counselor and babysitter. When you put 100+ adults in a small area all common sense seems to go out the window and people start acting like children. They also don't tell you that for every 3 normal residents you have there is 1 not operating on a full deck.

I've Got I.D.
When you fill out an application to live in an apartment you have to identify whether or not you have a pet. When you do that you have to list the type of pet (bird, cat, dog) and the breed of the pet. We also want to know how old, how tall and how heavy your pet is. It's not to be mean. We just know that your downstairs neighbor will appreciate you much more if you don't have a Great Dane running around your apartment in the middle of the night. We also want to know identifying features of your pet. That's so if your beloved dog Ruffles gets loose that we'll know who to return him to.

The company I was working for at the time had recently purchased a new property. We were two weeks from the official takeover so I was at a property close by auditing the files of the applicants waiting to move in as well as the current residents. If someone was a chronic late-payer I made sure to make a note so these things could be brought up when we met with the old company before the purchase.

I came across one apartment that had a rather thick file. Not only were they habitually late payers but they had a very aggressive dog that made working on maintenance requests difficult as the dog had to be removed from the apartment or double-caged to keep it from getting out and attacking the maintenance team. I was looking over the pet rider (a rider is any amendment or addition to a standard lease that can change during the residency. ie: owner no longer has pet, we simply note it on the rider rather than having them sign a new lease.)

As I was reading this rider, I'm noting that the dog is a pitbull mix. As I skim to the physical markings part of the rider I notice: 5'3", brunette, tattoo on left breast, wrist and ankle. Yes dear reader, the resident described themselves and NOT the dog. Good to know, because if she ever got loose on the property, I was sure to know what apartment to send her back to!
We'll see a lot of this particular resident in the future.

Ed McMann
In order to rent an apartment, you have to have money. Not only do you have to have money but you have to have proof of having money. I mean, we're not going to give you your apartment for free. That would be just silly.

I had a prospective resident who would call every month to ask about availability and pricing. The prices never changed but she would always say that she was waiting until the price was low enough for her to move in. Over the course of a year, I got to know her well as she would always tell me about her troubles. And because I have nothing better to do (I mean, seriously, managing a multi-million dollar property is a cakewalk.) she liked to keep me on the phone for as long as she could. One day, I receive a call from her. She was so excited and happy.

Caller: You'll never guess what happened to me. I finally have my money. I am so excited, I came upon a windfall of money. I can finally move in! And I'll pay for my for a year right away. I'm so happy!

Me: Oh, that's so wonderful! I'm very happy for you. When would you like to come in and pick out your new apartment?

Caller: Well, my letter said that I just won $10million and that I have some paperwork to fill out before I can claim my money. But I think I'll have it within the month.

Me: (starting to get suspicious). That's. . . great. So, do you want to schedule an appointment?

Caller: Well, in order to claim my money, I just have to order some magazines. Why don't I call you once I get everything set up.

Me: Did your letter happen to come from Ed McMann?

Caller: How did you know?! Oh this is such a wonderful day.

Me: (shaking my head). How about this, why don't you call the number on the letter. I think this is from Publishers Clearing House. Why don't you call me back when you get all of this sorted out and set up an appointment when you know when you'll be receiving the money and we'll make our plans from there.

Caller: That sounds great! I can't wait to come in. I'll be talking to you soon!

Really, I couldn't burst her bubble. I'm not a monster. I figured that she would realize the truth when she called the 1-800 number on the letter. As much as she kept me on the phone when she called other times, I just couldn't rain on her parade. She was so happy and it was kinda cute.


I Want What He's Having!
Sometimes the crazy doesn't come from the residents. Sometimes it comes from the people that pop in to the office. Sometimes they want information on the property, or are inquiring about employment opportunities, some are looking for their friend's apartment or just want directions. I had made a habit of making sure the leasing office was as welcoming as possible. We had snacks, free coffee, tea or hot chocolate and sodas in the fridge. I'd bake cookies or have popcorn just popped ready and waiting. It was about the experience for not only residents but people who may be interested in renting an apartment.

One spring morning, I was refreshing the snacks. Office hours didn't officially start but I had the door unlocked because I was bringing things in from my car. I look up and standing in the doorway is a gentleman. There wasn't anything remarkable about his appearance but he looked a little lost. I asked him if there's anything I could help him with.

Man: What's going on over there? (nods towards the pool that is covered in a green tarp)

Me: Oh, we're in the process of uncovering the pool so we can drain it and get it ready for the summer.

Man: Yeah, but what's going on. They're setting up all that stuff.

Me: Oh the tools. Yes, they are rather unusual, aren't they? (Our pool cover attached with a complicated bolt mechanism that required large wrenches).

Man: No, no, the concert they're setting up.

Me: Excuse me?

Man: Yeah, see all the speakers? Do you know who is playing?

Me: No, sorry, I. . . don't?!

Man: Oh well, looks pretty rad. Can I have a muffin?

And with that, as quickly as appeared, he was gone. Muffin in hand happily walking out of the complex.

Coming Soon! Crazier and Craziest!