Stealing Is Fun.

The husband and I moved out of our apartment a little over a month ago.  This morning, as Jason was getting ready for work, he received a phone call from our previous landlords.  Here is the exact voicemail that was left:

“Hi, this is Jeff from TriWin Properties and I’m calling in regards to the washer and dryer in 939 Peach Street and was wondering if you guys stole them from the unit.  Please give me a call back at 438-0639 as soon as possible.”

Jeff, from TriWin Properties, called us to ask if we had stolen the washer and dryer that were in the apartment. 

He called us.  To ask us if we had stolen the washer and dryer. 

After a good hearty chuckle and a few minutes of me shaking my head in disbelief that A) the choad freaking called us, and 2) someone broke in to the apartment and stole two relatively large appliances, I called good ol’ Jeff back.  Here is the exact conversation:

Jeff:  “TriWin Properties, how may I help you?”

Me:  “Hi, may I speak with Jeff, please?”

Jeff:  “This is Jeff speaking.  Can I help you?”

Me:  “Hi Jeff.  I’m calling about the message you just left about the washer and dryer.”

Jeff:  “Yes.  Did you steal them?”

Me:  “No, Jeff.  We did not steal the washer and dryer.”

Jeff:  “When did you move out?” 

Me:  “We were out of the apartment by September 1 and I turned the keys into your office.”

Jeff:  “Were the appliances there when you moved out?”

Me:  “Yes, yes, they were. ”

Jeff:  “Alright, thanks.”

Me:  “You’re welcome.”

End of conversation.  I felt like telling Jeff, that yes, we did steal the appliances due to the fact that the last 3 months we lived there, I made repeated attempts to them to come out and repair our dead bathroom outlet and replace a broken light switch in our guest room.  Yeah, I got nothing.  Paybacks a bitch, Jeff!  TriWin is a crappy rental agency, anyway.  Have I ever shared my broken front door lock story?  Oh.  Let me.  It’s a good’n.  So, last Halloween, I was on my way home from school and had an interview to get to that afternoon.  Being Halloween, I was dressed up like a pirate and obviously, needed to change my clothes.  I get home and put the key in the lock.  Nothing.  Wouldn’t budge.  I tried for 10 minutes.  Nothing.  I drove out to the rental office and explained my situation to the dude behind the counter.

“Hi, my front door lock is broken.”

“Are you sure?

“Yes, I”m sure.  I just spent 10 minutes trying to open my front door.  It’s broken.”

“Maybe it’s your key.”

“No.  It’s not my key, it’s the lock.  My key worked fine this morning when I locked the door.”

“Well, I”m going to make you a new copy of your key so you can try it again.”

“Dude, it’s not the key, it’s the lock.”

“Well, it probably is the lock, but I”m going to make you a new copy of the key anyway.  Go back and try this new key and if it doesn’t work, then come back.”

“Sir, I have an interview in an hour.  Can we please just get the lock replaced and skip this step entirely? ”

“I”m sorry, but until I know for sure it’s the lock and not the key, this is all I can do.”


I walked out, sped home, tried the copied key WHICH DIDN’T WORK, and sped back.  When I walked in, the guy that helped me wasn’t there, so I had to explain the situation to a new guy, who didn’t understand what I was telling him.  “Wait, you mean the key won’t work or the lock is broken?”  THE FUCKING KEY WON’T WORK BECAUSE THE LOCK IS BROKEN, JACKASS!!  So, he then decides, yes indeed, we need a new lock for our front door.  He goes to pull up a work order for our apartment, which takes him 15 minutes to do because apparently, our address isn’t in his computer system.  The whole time he’s doing this, I’m freaking out on the inside because it is now 1/2 until my interview.  I interrupt him and ask how long this is going to be.  “Well, our repair guys are working on another project right now, so it’s going to be about an hour before they can come out.  And you’re going to have to stay there with them while they work.  It’s our policy.”  The aneurysm that is in my brain is slowly leaking blood at this point and is in danger of bursting.  “Sir, I have an interview in a 1/2 hour.”  “Well, we can wait until tomorrow if that works better.”  HOW THE FUCK ARE WE SUPPOSED TO GET INTO OUR APARTMENT THEN, ASSHOLE?!!?!  “Fine, send them over.  Can I borrow your phone, please?  Mine is locked in the apartment.”  I call the place I was supposed to interview with and had to reschedule.  Awesome.  Word of advice:  don’t ever do that.  You won’t get hired.  So, an hour and half later, two dudes come and change the lock.  “Yeah, here’s the problem…the lock broke.  That’s why your key didn’t work.”  Amazing….

Back to the Mystery of the Stolen Washer and Dryer….ever since we left that neighborhood, it has gone to the birds, I tell you!  The week we moved out, some ass with a coke craving smashed out the passenger side of our car to steal my most empty purse and about a week ago, there was a drive by.  What?!   And it’s not like the neighbors are any help in solving these crimes.  First of all, the house on the right is rented by hoodlums and like they give a shit what happens.  The house on the left is owned by an 85 year old man with Alzheimers.  One day during the summer, he came walking up the alley to me as I was getting into the car to go to school.  He asked me if I had seen a suspicious looking “Armenian man” lurking around the neighborhood.  I told Ralph I had not.  He then proceeded to tell me that I should be careful because this man is going around the neighborhood and kidnapping women and keeping them in his basement.  As he was telling me this, a car pulled in his driveway.  Ralph got this crazed look in his eye and said, “I bet that’s the son of a bitch now.  I’m going to get my shotgun.”  Holy shit, dude.  All I could do was watch as the car door opened and young women stepped out.  “Grandpa!  What are you doing?!”  Ralph went into the house and his granddaughter came over to me.  “What’s he been saying?”  I told her the story about the guy and how Ralph was going to shoot him.  “Don’t worry, Grampa doesn’t own a shotgun.  He’s got Alzheimers and another neighbor called us and told us he’s been wandering the neighborhood, knocking on peoples doors telling them the same story.”  Holy shit, again!  So, basically, even if Ralph had seen the perps who stole the washer and dryer, his poor destroyed brain would have interpretted the burglary back to WWII and probably would have claimed that Hitler did it.  Incredible. 

Ironically, the neighbors are all involved with the Neighborhood Watch program.  Or not.  The leader of the group is a wacky old Italian woman who would drop off flyers at the house, but in a really creepy way–she’d ring the doorbell 2 times, then immediately open the screen door and try to open the front door, jiggling the knob back and forth.  Then, she’d slide whatever propaganda through the bottom of the door.  The first time she did that, I was scared to death.  Who does that?  Creepy lady. 

So how’s YOUR day? 

Excuse me? Come again?


Long story short:  I’m about 4 weeks away from graduating from college and in the last quarter of my schooling, I have been “working” as an extern at the Nebraska Heart Institute.  By “working”, I mean I go in, put in a 1o hour day, and I get “paid” in learning the tricks of the trade:  a.k.a.  I don’t get paid at all.  

This week, I have been learning about the medical records/billing/insurance aspect of the job and have been working in the medical office.  Good stuff.  I sort through medical records all day and alphabetize things.  Boring?  Not at all.  I really enjoy the monotony of it all. 

Anyway, I’m working, la la la, sorting through a bunch of papers, trying to find an insurance claim on a patient, when the lady I’m helping out asks me out of nowhere, “Erin, do you have a rubber finger?”


 Do I have a rubber finger? 

 I giggled.

Uh, no, I do not have a rubber finger.  Why do you ask? 

Well, it turns out to be not as funny as what I was hoping for.  There is a device that peope who deal with sorting papers and whatnot put over their index finger and it helps them flip through the pages with ease without being a grossykins and licking your fingers to help you flip through pages.  I freaking hate it when people do that.  It’s like thanks pal, for licking your fingers and then touching my paper.  Awesome.  Why don’t you just stick your finger in my ear while you’re at it.  Great.  Thanks. 

I knew what the device was, but still, her asking me if my finger was rubber threw me off a bit.  It just seems like a personal question to me.  Kind of like when you have to fill out a questionaire at the doctors office….

“Have you ever had a blood clotting disorder?  Do you have a history of stroke, heart disease, or cancer in your family?  Do you have a rubber finger?”

Do they, and by “they”, I’m referring to a group of people, make prostetic fingers?  Like, if you lost your index finger in a freak fake gun fight, could you get an actual rubber finger?  Or do you just not bother with it and use the stump to scare small children?  I sometimes pretend that I lost part of my finger.  Because I’m partially retarded and take joy in stupid stuff like that.

 That’s all.  I spend my days alphabetizing and pretending part of my fingers are missing. 


Freshmaker, my ass

Here I am, eating Mentos, a.k.a. “The Freshmaker!!” when I find myself declaring shananigans on the Mentos Company.  Their product is all wrong.  False advertising is the game these folks are playing and I’m not about to stand for it.

Enter into evidence Exhibit A:

See below the word “fruit”, in tiny letters, it says “The Chewy Mint”.  Now look at the flavors–cherry, lemon, orange….how on earth can these fruits be considered “mint”?  Oh, that’s right.  They can’t.  It is physically impossible for fruit flavors to attain a mint undertone.  Try it for yourself.  Go brush your teeth, then take a big old bite out of an orange.  See what I mean?  It’s disgusting.  I am not refreshed after I do this. 

Second, I think Mentos are trying to ride the coattails of Skittles.  Mentos are like the retarded cousin of Skittles, all big, fat, and slow.  “Look, we’re Skittles!”  No Mentons,  you are not Skittles.  You are the Downs Syndrome Skittles.  I am still not refreshed.

Bonus points and mad props to you however, Mentos for:

 A) reacting so awesomely against Coke and making Coke spill it’s fizzy load all over the place

2) being the inspiration for that one Foo Fighters music video, “Big Me.”


So as you can see, Mentos are dumb, lazy, and are not acutally mints when in flavors other than “mint” or “spearmint” or “peppermint”.  Good try, though.  Extra credit for gaining street cred with science nerds and bored kids worldwide for your ability to make a Coke literally soil itself and for Dave Grohl wearing pigtails in the “Big Me” video. 

Hi, I’m nine years old and already, I’m an a-hole!

I am enraged.  Incensed.  I just read an article about some bratty little 9-year-old Chinese kid complaining that his first day of college at Hong Kong Baptist University was “very easy.”

Uh, you know what I find very easy, March Boedihardjo?  Staying up late, eating ice cream whenever I want, and driving my own car.  Man, being an adult is soooo freaking easy that I just want to go somewhere, unattended, no parental supervision, and go play in a toy store.  By myself.  And come home whenever I want to. 

There’s a word for your kind, mister, and it’s “showboat.”  Nobody likes a showboat.  I bet even your parents hate you and wish that you were their second born son so that they could give you up for adoption. 

Excuse me, I’m going to go play with puppies and then go to a candy store.