Git’r Done

Summer to Fall to Winter to Spring to Summer. It happens seemingly in the blink of an eye, at least the Summer to Winter part of it. The Winter part lasts FOREVER.

I like to show off the view from my balcony, the greenery that greets me during that blink of an eye. When the greenery and foliage is gone, I get what the picture on the right shows — a view of the berm and the privacy fence that sits at the top of the berm. My balcony also faces an old, section 9 apartment complex. Hidden by the leaves during the summer months, the apartments loom above the fence, hogging my horizon view. What also appears is all the garbage that has blown over the privacy fence from the apartment dumpster.

There isn’t a little amount of trash. There is a lot of trash. I moved into my condo in the Spring of 2017 (yes, blink of an eye… time flies), when the foliage had already begun making the berm a beautiful place. That November, when all the leaves had dropped, I received my first exposure to the mess. During the summer, I had noticed there was garbage there, garbage that included empty bottles and cans, but the berm really isn’t negotiable because of the foliage during the green time of year. I had no idea of the extent of the mess.

Neighbors told me that they had tried to get the condo association to do something about the garbage from the apartments, but they said they had no jurisdiction. The property manager had the same issue. It was the city’s responsibility, they said. The condo board president confirmed when I asked. So I grabbed several construction sized garbage bags that I had left from when I moved from my house, filled them with the refuse that had collected over the summer, likely for a few years. It was disgusting, disheartening. One bag was filled with only bottles and cans, as well as several jugs over used motor oil that had been tossed over the fence. There were two slats missing from the fence, and one numbskull from the apartments shoved his lunch garbage through the fence while I was picking up the garbage!

I repeated the drill a few times that winter, as well as the Novembers that followed.. until this November. Why am I doing this? I asked myself. This shouldn’t be my responsibility. I pay an association fee of over $300 a month. So, at the encouragement of the former condo board president, I sent an email to the property manager, CC’d the condo board. I made two simple requests — please ask the apartment manager to correct the issue with the garbage coming over the fence from the apartment dumpsters, an obvious code violation, and have the garbage on our berm picked up. That email was sent a little over two weeks ago, on a Wednesday.

The property manager did not respond to or acknowledge my email at all. I waited two days, followed up with another email to the property manager and asked for confirmation that my email had been received. I received a one sentence response Friday afternoon, a few hours later,advising my email had been forwarded to ‘the manager’. Is the manager the apartment manager? I asked that question and did not get a response.

Monday came and went with no response. Tuesday afternoon and I had not received a response from the property manager, so I sent a message to the city and asked how to report a possible code violation at the apartments. They responded the next morning with the phone number to call, as well a link to the city website where the complaint document could be filled out. The city also thanked me for contacting them, told me that the chief enforcement officer had been notified. Wednesday morning, during my work break, I sent a follow up email to the property manager with the information the city had provided. I also asked that they would acknowledge my email, let me know if action was going to be taken.

Crickets. No response. Wednesday evening, I took the avenue that is a bit cowardly, but I know can be effective. I posted on the condo FB page the pictures I had taken of the mess and the apartment dumpsters, asked my fellow residents to support my efforts to get something done by sending emails to our property manager. The current condo board responded to the post, said that she was sorry that I had not received a response and that she had asked the property manager to respond to me. She also indicated that she didn’t like that I had contacted the property manager, told me that I needed to be patient because the property manager had been working on my request since it had been received. I had to grit my teeth lest I say something I would regret. It’s no fun being lied to and equally distasteful to be talked down to.

I succeeded (mostly) in limiting my response, but I did make sure that the condo president knew that Thursday morning finished with no response at all from the property manager. I let her know that I would send one more follow up email, but would start calling the property manager if no response was received. It had been a week with no response besides ‘your request has been forwarded to a manager’.

I finally received a response Friday morning — two sentences that informed me the property manager had contacted the city and an officer would be paying the apartment a visit. The document for the code violation had been filed with the city. I thanked the property manager and asked her to keep me informed.

Friday afternoon, I heard the dumpsters being pushed back into the garbage corrals on the other side of the fence.

Monday morning, I sent an email to the property manager, thanked her for her efforts and asked what was going to be done about the garbage on the berm, on our property. She had avoided answering that request. I didn’t say that, but I did say that I would pick up the garbage that afternoon, if it wasn’t going to be done. It was supposed to snow Monday night (and it did) and rain the rest of the week. She responded immediately, said someone would be out to remove the garbage.

Late Tuesday morning, I watched a guy traipse into the little woods on the berm. It was raining and traces of the morning snow were still on the berm. He was carrying a pole to pick up the garbage and had several garbage bags. He emerged with one garbage bag, stuffed full. I watched as he picked the burrs off of his clothing, tied up the bag, then went in with another bag. When he was done, he had completely filled three large garbage bags.

I finished with a follow up email, thanked the property manager for getting the garbage issue resolved, as well as for the improved communication. I asked her if she wanted me to contact the city the next time the garbage becomes a problem — nothing had really been done to prevent it from happening again. She thanked me, told me it was OK if I contacted her instead of the city.

I feel like a persistent pain in the neck, but I had to be persistent in order to get something done. It wasn’t easy. Emails had to be written during work breaks and I don’t get many breaks, as I have a very busy job. This week, I took some time off, so finishing up was easier.

Contrary to what it may seem, I really don’t want to be involved with the politics and drama involved with living in a condo community. However, I am not one to sit on my hands and complain that nothing is getting done. I do something about it!

Here are some of the pictures I sent our property manager. They really don’t show what a mess the berm was.

Onions Are A Man’s Best Friend

My eyes are stinging right now. Can you say ‘How many onions would a onionchuck chop if a onionchuck could chop onions?’? I can’t. I might have had a beer or two while chopping. Six onions, but who is counting?

Thanksgiving requires chopping onions. Onions might be more essential to my Thanksgiving than turkey.

Let me think about that. Turkey is pretty dang important. But nearly everything I prepare for the holiday meal has onions in it. The turkey has one shove one right up the gobbler’s gut right before it goes in the oven. My essential according to my children killer cheese potatoes has one small very finely chopped onion in it. My daughter, who lives in Turkey and is having turkey, messaged me to ask for the recipe earlier this week. Grandma Slagle’s awesome wet turkey dressing says ‘brown lots of onions in a large amount of butter’. To me, that translates to five onions and a olympic sized pool equivalent of drippings and chicken broth.

I like being the chef. Tomorrow, the killer potatoes go in the oven early, while I prep the turkey. I whisper sweet nothings to the bird while I rub it gently with garlic and olive oil, then place it in a floured bag to roast. I loudly cackle with evil as I insert the turkey in the hot oven. Then I toast two loaves of cheap bread, tear the toasted bread up and toss it with enormous amounts of ground black pepper. It waits for the drippings and broth while the naked bird bastes itself in the oven.

Thanksgiving almost didn’t happen this year for my family. Dad is 80, so we decided to forego the family get together. Last week, I developed a nagging headache that lasted into the weekend. It was likely sinus related, with no other symptoms besides the headache, but my girlfriend decided that maybe it was best that I quarantine. She changed her mind today, especially since rumors of my chefly prowess have drifted her way. It’s nothing new to her. I cook for her nearly every week.

I called my youngest brother earlier this evening, used my speaker on my phone since I was performing Thanksgiving prepped. He answered using his speakerphone as well, since his wife and young son were prepping their Thanksgiving meal together. Paul is a smoked meat expert, but he told me that this year he is not smoking the turkey, elected to brine and roast the turkey instead. His wife pointed out to me something that is probably true — when men cook, they always cook the fancy meal and put more into it than the wife does. Why? Men don’t cook as often. Women, if they are in a traditional household, cook every day and don’t put as much into it by necessity. My brother Paul, took four hours to prep and cook a meal the other day! In his defense every dish I have tasted of his has been outstanding.

I’m ready. Let the feasting begin!

Goosestepping Through the Condos

Tonight’s entertainment is the most scintillating show one could ever imagine — the monthly condominium board meeting. Instead of attending in person, which I have to admit that I do (did your nerd alarm just sound?), I am listening to the meeting through a bluetooth speaker. Due to the sharp rise in Covid cases in Illinois, our board decided to conduct their meeting through Zoom and by audio only. That’s a good thing, because usually I am asked to leave due to my snoring.

Tonight is the annual election for the board. All votes are submitted via mail or by dropping off a proxy at the clubhouse. I voted. There is one nazi running for our board.. again. He showed up at last month’s meeting with copies of a map of our neighborhood, marked up to show a tally of the number of units who had put their garbage out the night before pick up, with an added bonus of how many times each unit had violated the no garbage too soon rule in the last three months. He’s my hero… NOT. Need I say that my vote for him was no?

Ooooooo… the board is talking about my building right now, something about a resident in that building being seen repeatly vacuuming his carpet in the nude.

Kidding. Just kidding. I wear a thong.

Thing. Thing a thong. Keep it thimple, to last the whole day longgggggggg.

It’s nearly the time of year to complain about the garbage that my lovely hoggish neighbors from the apartments on the other side of the fence have contributed to the woods that face my balcony. With cold weather creeping in, the trees are nearly done dropping their leaves. Now, all the garbage that was hidden by the greenery is visible. It’s a literal dump. The residents basically toss their garbage towards the garbage dumpsters, some just chuck it over the fence. It’s worse this year than it has been in previous years. I am taking pictures and sending them to the property management this time. That is at the encouragement of a board member. Once before, I filled a construction sized garbage bag and sent a picture to property management. They did nothing.

I am such an old fogie. Next on my agenda is going to be to eliminate the squirrels, who ravage my flower pots and boxes. They are my mortal enemies, not scared off when I vacuum. Putting forks in the pots didn’t deter them. Pepper sauce was only a mild deterrent. I am in search of small handcuffs.

Grrrrrrr… the nazi was elected to the board. Did they even look at the votes?

November Summer

Tags

weather

This is just plain incredible, awesome, fantabulous, wonderful, and whatever word that describes the best of blessings. Who woulda thunk that I would have spent the last five days on a bike, in shorts and a tee shirt, during the first full week of November? It is usually a crap shoot this time of the year, with moisture and cold the usual battle.

Thursday found me throwing on my bike clothes as soon as I hit the clock out button on my work computer at 4 PM. It was difficult to know exactly what I would be facing for weather because my condo almost always is cooler than the temperature outside. I had spent the day with an electric heater close by, albeit while wearing shorts and with bare feet (ain’t working from home great?). I have to admit, the prior two weeks had been cold and depressing, so I had started my winter cocooning already. The plump had already started to gather, my body just a bit too into the laziness. I hit the forest preserves trails with gusto, however, determined to make the best of it. To my surprise, work had been completed on the marshland remediation close by and those trails had been reopened. The new trail was beautiful, with hard packed crushed limestone that welcomed the ample rubber on my fat bike. The miles melted away furiously as I pumped away, oblivious to any objection my legs might have been sending my way, the scenery gorgeous as the sunset painted every bit of landscape in my view.

It wasn’t until I stopped to chat with a few friends that I realized that my body wasn’t happy with a fast ride. I felt my muscles begin to cramp as I stood and straddled my bike while talking to them, excited to see my friends for the first time in several months, a downside of this whole time of subtle quarantine. I arrived home, showered, waited for a friend to join me for dinner and some binge watching (Designated Survivor, my new fave). My muscles were tight and I felt the rush of energy from my ride begin to ebb. It was going to be a short evening, the call to rest a bit earlier than normal.

I awoke the next day to a fresh body. Really, I expected to be a bit wasted. I worked my typical tough Friday, then rinsed and repeated the day before. The ride that evening was even better. After the ride, a roast and more binge watching. I was very happy, the weather absolutely buoying.

Saturday morning? Up at 7, bike on the car, to my favorite singletrack with coffee in hand. I bombed the crowded trails. Oddly enough, but not surprisingly, when I arrived, I had to park in another parking lot because the place was packed with people enjoying the weekend like I was enjoying it. My trail system has become a popular place this season, largely due to the pandemic. It’s a blessing, the popularity means that the trails are getting more attention, the park district realizes finally what a gem the park is. While it’s different having to be more aware of hikers and newbies on the trail, it’s better to have better maintained trails and additions to the system.

I got a ton done on Saturday — car cleaned, garage swept, groceries bought. Good weather brings a better, more energized attitude.

Sunday found me up early again. Church was at 8:15 AM, largely because I have to register for a slot at the service due to COVID. The only slots open were at the early service, my preference. I went to church, hit the trails again, this time another trail system, one less technical and more of an extended aerobic workout. I rode three hours, pleasantly toasted but with plenty left in the tank. I tried to nap when I got home, but the sunny day was just not conducive to sleep. Of course, the poor performance of the Bears may have contributed. I managed to catch the end of the third quarter and, well, the Bears are not all that fun to watch right now. I instead turned my attention to dinner prep — a nice chocolate pie and a light chicken alfredo recipe (grilled chicken chopped up and mixed into a garlic cheese sauce with spinach and penne pasta). Another friend joined me for dinner, the food and Moscato excellent. Yes… more binge watching.

Tonight, a pleasant spin on the fat bike. Tomorrow, looks to be another good day. I may get six day in a row on the bike, unprecedented for this time of year!

Interestingly, the new campus pastor at the church I attended the last thirty years wants to interview me tomorrow. I think she is interested in seeing what kind of stories she can drag out of me!

Broken?

It’s November 4th. It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine. My name is Yon Yonson.

I don’t know why Yon Yonson just came into my head. It’s been a long time since I read Slaughterhouse Five. Maybe it came into my head because Biden just won Wisconsin. He doesn’t work in a lumbermill there, although many of the people he meets as he walks down the street probably will ask him how the hell he got there.

Looks like we are about to face four years of conservatives wailing about how this country is broken. After all, we just endured four years of liberals wailing the same song, doing their best to break it even more. I’m conservative and a Christian as well, so I am disappointed. There is no chance that I will move to Canada. As I told my neighbor when he asked me in the hallway this evening, poop eating grin on his college professor liberal face…. God is in control. With that in mind, it really doesn’t matter who is sitting in the oval office. Life will go on as it always has.

Same as it ever was. Same as it EVER was. Same as it ever was.

I do have to remind myself that life needs to feel broken, needs that urge to get better, if I am going to be motivated to make it better. I could choose to give in, accept that it is broken, decide there is nothing I can do about it, surrender and send up the white flag in defeat, sit on the couch and get fat on peanut butter bologna sandwiches. That is not the way. I hope that America doesn’t get that way, never becomes complacent, always has that hope that never accept being broken.

Of course, with a Democrat in office, even if I am not willing to be broken, I probably had best learn to live broke. At least I will be healthy because, well, Biden has the solution to the COVID situation.

OK, time to quit writing. After all, my words are bent, not broken.

I raise a soda pop towards the east. May whoever sits there prosper. We, the people of America, need you to prosper.