Here is the current fan of doom, blowing poo fumes all over the air downstairs. I have come to think of the downstairs of our house as, "The Dead Zone".
The last post relating to this ridiculous event had me much more chipper and optimistic. That bloom has faded fast as I continue to lose sleep night by night.
Here are our clothes, heaped up in a conspicuous pile on our bed. Can't wait to put all that back.
Why?
Here is the timeline.
Thursday-March 2nd-(7AM) The flood occurs.
Thursday-March 2nd-(4PM) The cleaning crew arrives and "cleans" the shower stall and washroom floor. They put a high powered disinfectant on the carpet, peel it back and put high powered fans on it. They tell us that the fans will need to blow for 48 hours in order for them to dry. Which puts them back on Saturday. Me being freaked out by the smell and bacteria threat, decide that we should sleep upstairs until this is all resolved.
Saturday-March 4th-(11AM) After me calling and reminding, oh yes, I'll say the name, Universal Cleaners in Alexandria-(they said, "Oh...I thought we had already finished that job..."), they came at about 2PMish. Replaced the carpet padding, steam cleaned the carpet, put it back to normal. I start to move back into our bedroom.
Saturday-March 4th-(7:30PM)-On our way down to see Jenny Soto Benson in her first night in Nevermore, Matt confesses to me on the way down to the theatre that he went into the closet to grab a shirt that had fallen by the back of the closet wall, and it was soaked. So was the carpet by the back of the closet wall. We get home later that night and I look between and under the washer/dryer. The "cleaning" crew failed to move the washer/dryer to clean under them. Raw sewage still remained underneath, and had bled from the washroom wall into the facing wall of the walk-in closet. You follow me? I am livid.
Sunday-March 5th(all hours)-I leave several messages, all in curt, yet not unrealistic tones. One to the "Property Manager" (hah!), one to the "Professional Cleaners" (hah!)
Monday-March 6th (10AM) I get a call from the "Property Manager", who isn't doing a great job at managing the property, if you asked me. She says, "So what's the problem?"
?
I am aghast. I say, "What part of the message that I left was unclear?"
She tells me that she is going to come over to see this for herself, and maybe take pictures. I say bring it on, but hurry it up, I gotta get to work.
30 minutes pass, although her office is less than 4 blocks away. Nice.
She comes to the door, and what I had imagined {from her voice} was a woman in her mid-fifties, maybe a silk scarf sloppily knotted around her chicken-like neck, frizzy and wild hair that is being poorly restrained by a navy blue banana clip, and some sort of sailor-striped tee with leggings and maybe a librarian sweater-jacket of beige overtop. (Seriously, that's what I saw in my head when I talked to her).
What walked in was a mid-forties vixen with blond hair...well, close to platinum, severe make-up, a tight black dress and a blood-red scarf around her neck. (I was right about the scarf, at least).
She looked like a cross between Cha-Cha from Grease the movie/Joan Rivers/ and Amanda Lepore. Mostly the latter.
While patiently waiting for the slapper to arrive, I printed out two 8x10 shots of the sewage exploding in glorious technicolor. (Yes, the same ones so disgustingly featured on this very blog). I wanted to give them to her to keep in her records, and also, she said that she wanted to take pictures, so I figured I would give her mine, so that she would have an idea of the level of poo that there actually was before it resided.
I started to walk her downstairs when she came in, and I couldn't help but ask her...
"I'm sorry, but I guess I'm confused why you wanted to come here. You said you wanted to take pictures, but brought no camera. So this isn't an insurance thing. So why?"
"I just wanted to see this with my own eyes.", she coldly blurts.
"So, you don't believe me?"
"It is a bit much to believe.", the slag says.
"Well, Miss," (I always use that as an insult to older women when I need it-especially brazen huzzies who looked like her) (Is that mean?-Good.) "Follow me!"
I show her the carpet that we had newly discovered wet. To prove the point, I had a tissue in my pocket and simply placed it on the carpet, and she watched it get soaked. Then I took her around the corner to the washroom. I pushed aside the washer to reveal...you guessed it. Poopies.
I then whip out my 2 pictures, showing her the washroom one, and indicating that the water/feces cocktail came up from the drain, passed under the washer/dryer, and seeped into the closet. The cleaning crew had failed to move the washer dryer, and if they would have, they would have noticed the wall of the closet, and maybe we wouldn't have found it so late. Was this so hard to believe now??
She said, "Fine." and began to leave.
She seemed filled with piss and vinegar.
I couldn't resist this pot shot.
"I'm sorry if I ruined your day, Miss.", I said, as boy-next-doorish as I could manage.
"This situation is just frustrating.", the wench snipes before walking out the front door.
"You bet it is, Miss. And you're not even the one with the shit on your floors.", I smiled my biggest Walmart/Have-a-Nice-Day smile.
No response as she left.
Monday-March 6th(5PM)-The Cleaners arrive and move the washer/dryer, lift the closet carpet and restart the cycle. They say they will be back in 48 hours to finish the process. Those 48 hours passed at 5PM today. No sign of them. I guess I'll be making another phone call in the morning. Here we go again.
Written by Stephen Gregory,
on the 6th of uncomfortable and sleepless couch nights.
