Sunday, March 04, 2018

back at my place

I got no word from the repairmen about whether my bathroom was officially ready for use. Even though I had left a note specifically requesting that they leave a memo or send me a text message indicating "All done," the lazy bastards uttered not a peep. So based on what the HR guy said last Monday or Tuesday, I packed up my stuff and moved back to my place today despite the lack of an official OK.

Not having taken too many items with me on my several-day trip upstairs, I found it easy to set myself back up in my regular apartment. One hitch, though: my goddamn modem isn't letting any data through (it's showing that there's a connection, but no data flow), so I'm typing this blog post on my laptop while temporarily—very temporarily—using my phone as a Wi-Fi hotspot. I did have to spend some time cleaning out the crud left inside my bathroom by the repairmen—nasty, booger-like flecks of silicone sealant were everywhere on the bathroom floor—and I had to use my trusty lint roller to de-schmutz the surface of my dining table. But all of that is done, has been done for hours, and I'm fairly settled back in.

My other problem is a new crick in my neck—this time on the right side, and probably the result of sleeping awkwardly while in the 16th-floor apartment. The twinges and spasms are fairly severe, but I won't be going back to the damn witch doctor, whose services didn't strike me as all that effective last time. No: I think I'll stick to my previous remedy: Father Time, healer of all wounds. And twinges. And spasms.

In looking over the repair work done on my bathroom, I'm not sure I can trust the quality of the workmanship. In the note I'd left for the workers, I had mentioned that there were holes in the walls of my bathroom. From what I can see, only the very largest hole—big enough for mice to get through, although I've never seen any mice or roaches or other pests—got filled in with a massive thrombus of silicone. I also think I see new holes—holes that hadn't been there before—on the wall behind my toilet. All in all, the repairs look shoddy.

This leaves me worried that the downstairs neighbors are still going to end up complaining about leaks. But I have a plan: if they do, then I'm going to request a move to that guest room, assuming that's possible. The difference in quality between my current apartment and that guest room is epic: I've come back to my place hating my nasty, dingy, un-cleanable third-world fucking bathroom even more than before. Moving upstairs would mean sacrificing that magnificent view out my window, but since I keep my blinds down most of the time, anyway, I could live with that loss. The gain, meanwhile, would be significant: a far cleaner apartment with a far larger and cleaner bathroom (that has actual tiling! and a shower curtain!), a large kitchenette, tons of built-in storage space, and blazing-fast internet.

So while I'm willing to stay in my current nasty place, I'll leave if the downstairs neighbors complain one more time. That complaint will be the straw-that-broke-the-camel's-back catalyst for a move to a nicer space, even if it'll be for only another few months.

Meanwhile... yup... I'm back at my place. Joy.

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