Little Mutinies

I’ve mentioned that Husband and I have to move, right? We are not happy about this. We’re being unceremoniously kicked out by our landlord who failed to read the regulations governing her own condo building, which regulations prohibit her from renting the apartment for another year. We did our own due diligence before we signed a lease and told her we’d like to stay for another year and she reassured us it’d be fine.

She’s been an okay landlord. Okay. When we first moved in, she offered to leave us this table, which fit perfectly against an oddly-sized kitchen wall, for a small fee of $100/month (if you didn’t follow that link through, the table was $299 new, and was clearly pretty banged up). We said no thanks, because it made no sense to us to pay $1200 to use a banged up table for a year. The next day she took the tall stools that matched the table, but never came back for the table itself. So we got to use the table for free. But I suspect she took the matching stools for spite.

Now that we don’t have to keep her (and the neighbors) happy in hopes of getting to stick around longer, we’ve been staging small mutinies. I don’t use a coaster when I eat breakfast at the $1200 table anymore. We’ve quit changing light bulbs, because the expensive flood lights in this place are always burning out and Husband has to climb a ladder to change them.  We roll the desk chair around on the hardwood floor with a vengeance; gone are the days of reminding ourselves we’ve got to get to an office supply store for one of those plastic chair mats. We’re thinking of insisting on a new dishwasher, because it’s unreasonable to pay the rent we do and not having a working dishwasher even for two months, right?

There are some sad things, too. We realized it would be a waste of time to (finally) frame and hang photos from our honeymoon in Spain on our bedroom walls. We realized we wasted our time seven months ago when we carefully packed the holiday decorations away in a closet that we’d be able to reach easily in a year. The extra room will never be anything more than an office (slash bedroom for our absurdly spoiled dog).

I hope the landlord doesn’t catch on to our little one-sided war before she returns our security deposit.

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