The Crazy Lady (10/10/06)

While I'm on the topic of my old landlords (who, despite my previous post, were very good to me), I thought I'd share excerpts from the harrowing correspondence we had about the crazy lady who lived downstairs. They took our complaints seriously, working with me and the other tenants every step of the way. And when the crazy lady got worse instead of better, they served her with eviction papers. She was gone within the month. I know crazy people find me irresistible for some reason, but this lady was a doozy. How bad was she, you ask? Read on and find out!

9/5/06 I am frightened and very concerned by the violent outbursts and unprovoked verbal attacks I have heard and witnessed since moving to this building, all of which have come from the woman who lives downstairs ... the excessive noise and obscene rants continue all day and well into most nights. She screams and shouts some of the most vulgar words in the English language, and repeats the most offensive insults until she feels satisfied that she has gotten her point across, which often takes hours. I have never heard anyone yell back ... When she gets tired of talking to herself, she’ll lean out the front window and hurl threatening insults at passers by– it’s horrifying.

I did report her to the police earlier this summer– after seeing her try to pick a fight with a parked car then fumble with her keys for quite a while ... I probably should have called them on other occasions, like when she tried to throw the neighbor's grill away. It's chained to the deck, and she was so angry that she couldn't move it, she screamed "I’ll just burn it up then!", turned the propane on high, and left. The police have been called to the building two other times that I know of ... I was stopped and questioned by them once as I was coming home well after midnight ... this fact has only made her madder. She is very angry, violent, and seems quite altered; something needs to be done.

I have never in my life called 911 more than I did in that month and a half, and unlike the police who yelled at me when I found the dead guy, these officers were very courteous and tried on numerous occasions to reason with this woman. I felt bad that they had to call her ma'am! Her response (when she responded at all) was similar to the cat lady on The Simpsons-- she would wander out, scream incoherent gibberish, then wander away. Once she actually threw her cat out the window. I kid you not. She must have been remorseful the next day, as there was a pile of Meow Mix on the front walk. The cat came back, but (for its sake) I'm not sure that was a good thing.

9/30/06 I just wanted to send you a quick update on the situation with the woman downstairs. For a week or so around the time we last spoke, all was quiet down there. However, the shouting and crashing noises have started up again, but they do not occur as often, and have not reached the point where police intervention would be appropriate.

I, along with every other tenant on the Mozart side of the building, did receive a note of apology for her disturbing us, assuring us the problem "has been taken care of". I was touched by the gesture, but was jolted awake at 4:30 the very next morning by her ranting, and have been awakened in the middle of the night 3 or 4 times since then. I also believe she has cursed at me personally– once through her back door as I was taking out the trash, and another time out the front window as I was coming into the building– which I do not appreciate in the least. I just wanted to let you know that ... although some improvements have been made, the problem has definitely not "been taken care of".

I had met several of the other tenants by this time; we were united in our fear of the crazy lady. Once, when I was outside talking to the police, the guy from the top apartment on the other side of the building leaned out his window and yelled to the cop, "She's crazy, man!" in a show of solidarity. It was great.

10/10/06 I need to recant the optimistic assessment I made at the beginning of the month about the continuing saga with the woman downstairs. I was in my apartment on Sunday morning, quietly reading the paper when I heard her start cursing– she sounded closer and louder than usual. I quickly realized she was right outside my front door, calling me a "f***ing bitch, c*nt, and whore", saying that she’d "show me...", and concluded with "do you understand? GOOD!", slapped my door once, and left.

I heard her shouting again outside later in the day, and when it didn’t let up, I went to my window to see what was going on– she was standing on the sidewalk staring right up at my living room window, both middle fingers raised, and voicing her opinion of me for the whole block to hear. I have done nothing to provoke this woman, and have never even spoken to her directly. I did find a note on my door telling me to control my pets. There was something else written on the bottom of the paper, but it had been ripped off, as if she had thought twice about leaving anything so vile in writing. I do have a cat, but I can’t for the life of me imagine what type of complaint she would have against a four-pound kitten!

I later learned that she had been served eviction papers earlier that week. I began locking my kitten in my bedroom when I wasn't home because I seriously thought she was going to try and poison him, and tip-toed up and down the back steps for about a week. The night she moved out was the scariest of all; she wanted to leave us something to remember her by. By the time we called the police, she was practically foaming at the mouth. But once she had left, and I managed to catch up on all the sleep I had lost over the previous months, I actually began feeling sorry for the woman-- it must be hard to be so angry all the time. I just pray I don't run into her on the street someday; there's no telling what she would do!

Security Deposit Snafu

According to the City of Chicago's Residential Landlord and Tenant Ordinance Summary, "A landlord must return all security deposit and required interest, if any ... within 45 days from the date the tenant vacates the unit." Well, folks, I moved Memorial Day weekend ... here we are coming up on Labor day, and I just deposited the sizable check I had been waiting on all summer, or for 93 days to be exact. That's more than double the time frame imposed by the city, but I waited to play the "I'll report you to the city" card until I got desperate, which was about mid-August. A brief account of the (increasingly weird) correspondence between me and my former landlords went something like this:

Starting in early July...

me: Um, hi. I've been waiting on my security deposit for quite a while now and was wondering if you could tell me when I can expect to receive it?
them: That's weird. We mailed your check a couple of weeks ago. We'll put a stop payment on it and issue a new one right away.
me: Great, thanks!

A week passed, then another...

me: It's me again. I'm still waiting to get my deposit back.
them: Yeah, about that. Your first check was returned to us because of an invalid address. We need to verify your new address.
me: And you didn't call me why?
them: We figured you'd call us eventually.
me: [sighing] Nice.

The address gets verified, and the second check goes in the mail. Within days, an envelope arrives.

me: Woo hoo! [Then upon closer inspection] What the...? You've GOT to be kidding me! [Calling the landlords back] Um, hi. Me here. I got a check from you guys today...
them: Great!
me: but I can't cash it because it's a) not signed, and b) post-dated for September 2nd (it was the second week of August)
them: [stammering] Uhh ... the date must be a computer glitch, and I guess I just assumed that the landlord had signed all of the checks ... I didn't actually look before I sent them. Oops! Just shred that one and we'll send you another.
me: And when can I expect to receive that check?
them: Soon. Very soon.

Another 10 days pass...

me: This is getting ridiculous, folks. Can't I just swing by your office sometime and have the landlord sign this check? If it was valid, I'd be able to cash it in a few more days
them: Uh, well, we want to send you a new check.
me: No. I want to pick this up in person. Just tell me where your office is, and I'll come pick it up tomorrow.
them: [stammering again] I'm sorry, but I can't tell you that.
me: What!?! [Then, pulling out the big guns ... ] You guys have been good to me up until now, and I've been a model tenant for the past six years ... I'd hate to have to report you to the City ...
them: [nervously] I'll tell you what, why don't you meet one of our guys on the street corner tomorrow. It's outside one of our properties near you. He'll give you your check.
me: Um, okay... [then to myself] I'm starting to suspect that you guys might be affiliated with the mob or something.... Am I going to get whacked?

So I drive to the designated street corner the next day, mace in hand, not knowing what to expect. Thankfully, I recognize the guy who pulls up in a Mountain Dew-colored Mustang. He's a nice guy; a little greasy looking, but relatively harmless. I step tentatively out of my car when he approaches. He doesn't whack me; he waves instead. What a relief! I make him wait while I check the date and validity of the check, we make some small talk, and get back into our cars and drive away.

I don't know why the simplest tasks always wind up being such an ordeal for me, but at least this story has a happy ending. It was a long time coming, though!

B-I-N-G...Oh!

Although it wasn't my first Bingo night experience at this hipster hangout in Humboldt Park (that masquerades as a seedy dive bar), it was my first win. The Monday night Bingo racket draws an unusually large number of clean-cut Chicago Public School teachers (including the friend who invited me) in addition to the usual hipsters that frequent the joint (a moody, oddly dressed bunch, identifiable largely by their distinct [albeit androgynous] hair and clothing styles); it's a strange mix.

There's no cover charge, and no fee for the Bingo cards. The callers share a name (it's something common, like Dave or Jim) and infuse some improvisation and off-color jokes into their Bingo calling shtick, turning an activity that is traditionally geared toward a more geriatric crowd into something of a sketch comedy routine. Gone are the ink-filled daubers of old, and instead of troll dolls, PBR cans line the tables above players' Bingo cards.

Because no money changes hands, there is no monetary prize for the winners. To compensate, the Daves (or whoever) have gotten a little more ... umm ... creative with their prize packages. My friend proudly displays a coloring book page on his fridge that he won earlier in the year--it's some Disney prince with a generously sized phallus added to his person in an otherwise G-rated scene-- and the page is autographed by one of the Daves. Other prizes I've seen include: little plastic army guys, a half-completed Sunday crossword, noise makers, and other random junk. I'm not a hipster myself, so maybe I just don't get the humor, but it was all in good fun, or so it seemed.

It was the last game of the night, a round of "Hippie Bingo" (the only spaces in play were "B" and "O") and I found myself caught up in the middle of a three-way win. As is customary for all their winners, I had to come up on "stage" and answer a few random questions. Since there were three of us, they thought it would be a great idea to subject us to a "dance off" a la Soul Train, to determine who would get their "grand prize" for the evening. Feeling like an idiot, but agreeing to play along, I shimmied my way across the stage. They must have liked my impromptu dance moves, because they deemed me the winner!

What did I win, you ask? Well, it's pictured above. They gave me a bourbon-soaked copy of Alcoholic's Anonymous. Again, I don't quite get hipsters, but I really think it crossed that fine line between offbeat humor and plain old bad taste. I smiled wanly as they continued their little show, and returned to sit with my friend at the bar, who was beaming about the attention the Daves had lavished upon me. I left that night scratching my head; why would anyone find that funny? Ironic, sure, but inappropriate nonetheless. It went directly into the Goodwill pile.

So hipsters, I've decided that you can keep your Bingo-calling Daves and your phallic coloring-book pages and your cheap, nasty beer in a can. If and when I do play Bingo, I'll take the troll dolls and superstitious blue-haired ladies over tasteless humor any day. And should I have to drink PBR again, I'd prefer it in a bottle, thank you very much.

Grammar Mulligans

I can't stop thinking about a segment that my radio crush, WGN's John Williams, did a couple of weeks ago on his (now 9:00-12:00) show. He was talking about grammar, which caught my attention right away. Williams was arguing that, while most people should know more grammar rules than they do, everyone should be able to have just one mulligan (that's a golf term... it basically means a "do-over" or a free pass) when it comes to a certain word use or sentence structure that they just can't seem to grasp, no matter how hard they try.

Williams and some of the other on-air personalities went on to deliberate whether anybody should be allowed to waste their mulligan on the grammatical difference between words like to/too/two or there/their/they're, because everyone should know that. I think it was decided that, if that's your one big hang-up, then it's admissible. When he opened up the phone lines, he posed two questions to listeners (and I paraphrase): "what other grammar faux pas doyou think should not be allowed, even with a mulligan?", and, "what is your mulligan?". I immediately began trying to call in. As I continued to hit redial, he explained that his mulligan would be (understandably) used on affect vs. effect, arguing that he can never remember which word to use in which situation, and not to bother calling in to correct him on this, because he still wouldn't get it. [For all intensive purposes, King John, affect is a verb, and effect is a noun, but I promise not to tell you that!]

I finally got through, and was placed on hold. For me, the grammatical error that shouldn't be covered under any mulligan, one of my personal pet peeves, is the plural vs. possessive rule. And for anyone who doesn't know what that means, it means that adding an "s" to a word does not automatically require an apostrophe be added as well. The apostrophe is used to show possession, and not a number greater than one: "Taco's car had three wheels" is grammatically correct; "Three taco's for $1.00" is not. I had a whole slew of others, such as ending sentences with a preposition (at), but didn't want my radio crush to think I was a total word nerd (even though I am)!

But what would my mulligan be? Although I know more grammar than the average listener, I was impressed by the mulligan ideas that other callers had come up with. John Williams' listeners (and yes, I meant that to be possessive!) are an intelligent bunch; apparently, I'm in good company! I can't remember the exact examples, but I agreed wholeheartedly with the listeners who wanted a pass on things like capital vs. capitol, principal vs. principle, and compliment vs. complement. I grimaced on the toward vs. towards (as towards isn't a word), but because it's misused so often, I can see how that would be confusing. I don't have enough problems with these words to warrant a mulligan, though, so I kept thinking.

Suddenly, it dawned on me: I would use my mulligan on nauseous vs. nauseated! I can't for the life of me remember which word to use when, but I do know that the word nauseous is misused with astounding frequency! I was so pleased with myself, thinking my radio crush would find me witty and clever, and that a lively banter would ensue.

I was listening so actively to the witty, clever, and lively banter between Williams and the caller before me-- who admitted that she used an online dating service and couldn't bring herself to reply to men who had typos, misspellings, and grammatical errors in their profiles (that would be a deal breaker for me, too!)-- that I lost track of time. So I was crestfallen when I got disconnected right after she hung up; they were running late for the news.

Hopefully, I'll have better luck the next time I feel compelled to weigh in on some funny and irreverent conversation between Williams and his loyal listeners... but in the mean time, what's your mulligan? Is there a word, a spelling, or a phrase that baffles you? I'd be curious to hear it, and-- as long as it's not on the plural vs. possessive-- I promise I won't judge!

p.s. I would personally like to thank one of the SCHOOLS where I teach for the sign pictured above.

Worst. Parking Lot. EVER.

How many engineers does it take to design a parking lot? No, seriously-- how many? Whatever the number, the end result leads me to believe that whoever designs and/or constructs these lots must be short an engineer more often than not. I'm sure everyone can think of at least one lot where the lines were drawn so close together that, even though they can get the car into an empty space, they can't open the door if there's a vehicle in either one of the adjacent spaces. Or those big, complex lots with lots of blind spots and no signs helping to direct traffic. It's a parking free-for-all; enter at your own risk!

Honestly, people-- how hard can it be? I'm no engineer, but I think I could tell from the get-go whether or not a parking setup is going to work. And yet, I continually find myself trying to navigate through a lot with a severely bottle-necked entrance/exit or with a one-way arrow painted on the asphalt pointing drivers in the wrong direction.

For me, though, the lot that takes the cake would have to be the one outside a popular grocery store on Lincoln Avenue. Those who live in the city know that Lincoln is one of those rare diagonal streets amidst the grid of north-south and east-west thoroughfares. The store is part of a miniature strip mall, and design mistake #1 was that the building's foundation was poured to align with the aforementioned grid, and not the diagonal street out front.

So the parking lot engineers came in and turned the lot along Lincoln Avenue into an isosceles triangle. This placed the smallest angle of the triangle directly in front of the entrance to this immensely popular grocery store. This is a prime example of a parking lot fail. The pathway to the spots on either side of this parking nook gets narrower and narrower until it finally ends in a point. When it's busy, people are forever gunning their vehicles in reverse (into oncoming traffic, mind you) because somebody's gotten stuck in the parking equivalent of the Bermuda Triangle. Yet, incredibly, people still try to park there; it makes for some great people watching, and would be an amazing observational experiment for some psychologist's research.

Then, to make matters even worse, they stuck a huge island in the larger part of the lot. Perhaps this was meant to maximize parking, but really it just leads to countless traffic tie-ups. The only normal spaces in this lot are at the far corner; even so, I tend to park on the street just to avoid all the chaos! I've long said that, if this whole music thing doesn't pan out, I should go into business designing parking lots. Well, I guess my common sense is needed in this field more urgently than I previously realized!

Do you have a parking lot that you avoid because of some blatant design flaw? Where is it? I think motorists everywhere should band together and call them out; now's the time!

Park It

Mayor Daley has single-handedly taken away one of the little joys in the lives of us Chicagoans-- finding a meter with time left on it. Thanks to his poorly planned lease of the parking meter system, which has quadrupled the cost of street parking in my neighborhood, the meters are gradually being replaced with parking pay boxes. These new pay boxes take coins and credit cards (because parking in this city is now that expensive) and spit out a little paper receipt, which motorists must display on their dash. No more pulling into a space and finding that there's just enough time left on the meter to run into the bank or to pick up carry-out, and our random acts of kindness can no longer include popping a quarter into an expired meter to spare another driver a ticket from the cop making his way up the block.

I know it sounds pretty trivial, but I was really bummed about this, at least until I saw a transaction today that warmed my heart. A baffled motorist was standing on the sidewalk, trying to decipher the directions on a pay box when another motorist walked up and handed them a little slip of paper. It was a paid receipt, one that wasn't set to expire for another 40 minutes. An act of kindness, no longer random, no longer anonymous, but a brilliant idea nonetheless... I only wish I had thought of it first!

So kudos to my fellow windy-city dwellers for adapting to this new type of adversity. In true Chicago style, we've yet again found a way to cheat the system (at least a little). Take that, Mayor Daley! So if you pay to park, and finish your errands/lunch/whatever sooner than planned, take that slip of paper off your dashboard and pass it on-- not only will you make someone's day, you'll likely inspire them to do the same. It's just one more way to pay it forward (and stick it to the man!).

Oh, Bloody El!

Since my move a couple of months ago, I've had this recurring dream that startles me awake in the middle of the night. I can't remember the details of this dream, and don't know whether it's even the same dream each time or if it's a bunch of different dreams with the same end result. In these forays into my subconscious, I invariably wind up in the path of an oncoming train; my fleeting sense of panic, coupled with the disorientation that comes from being jarred out of a deep sleep, hurtles me from unconsciousness to full attention so quickly that all I can do is blink groggily while I try to figure out where I am.

Thankfully, I'm safe in my bed, but unfortunately, the roar of the oncoming train is all too real. I live right next to an el station -- as in, if I were to fall out of my living room window, I would land on the tracks -- and for some reason, the first trains of the morning are always the loudest. Most of the time, I don't even notice all the transit activity that goes on outside my window; it's like static, or background noise, to me. When the trains come to a stop, their momentum stops as well, and the noise is usually pretty minimal. But when the trains start up again in those dark, silent hours before dawn, a few of them bypass my station and don't start picking up passengers until they're further down the line. While they are supposed to adhere to the speed limit sign that is nailed to my apartment building, with nothing (and nobody) stopping them, these trains literally go careening down the track, uninhibited by the monotony of transporting commuters that bogs down the process any other time of day.

And the noise they leave in their wake is considerable: the window panes rattle, my dishes move around in the cupboards, and I am instantly wide awake. My fear isn't entirely unfounded, though; the only thing stopping the train from careening into my apartment building (should it ever derail) is a flimsy chain-link fence. This is of little comfort to me as I'm lying awake in bed. By the time my heart stops pounding, the birds start singing outside, beckoning in the break of day. As I lay staring at the ceiling at that ungodly hour, I can't help but mutter, "oh, bloody el!" ... pun fully intended.