(no subject)
So, uh.
So, a little over a week ago, my wife(!) ladyarkham noticed a few of the neighbor children sitting on the front porch of our new apartment. She went out and, in a neighborly fashion, offered them some juice to drink.
They drank all of our juice. Then they asked to come see the apartment, and half-a-dozen youngsters paraded in a few minutes later. "You have chocolate cake!" they said. "Can we have chocolate cake?"
"Not unless you ask your parents," she said, and a few minutes later they had.
They ate all of our cake. Which was, in itself, all right - we're happy to be, you know, the nice people on the first floor.
The first point at which we suspected something had gone terribly, horribly wrong was the next day, when they knocked on the door at 10 AM. And then at 11. And then at 12. And at roughly one-hour intervals for the rest of the day, at each of which they asked, very insistently, for more cookies and cake and popsicles.
This process might have repeated the day after that, but around this time we left for whirlwindmonk's apartment. Returning home on Sunday morning, we discovered that (a) someone had slashed the tires on one of our cars, and (b) the internet was out, and it would be two days later before it could be fixed.
This is the point where things get a little weird.
Sunday afternoon, the nice policeman who stopped by to see about our car informed us that this was the sixth or seventh call he had personally answered in our complex today.
Monday, as I was home by myself, I was interrupted by a knock at the door. Opening it, I found one of our neighbor children, who wordlessly thrust a wad of bills into my hand.
"What's this?" I asked.
"For you," she whispered, barely audible. "Go store. Buy candy."
"I'm not going to the store right n-" I said, and she ran off. So I went upstairs to what I was fairly sure was her apartment, and knocked on the door.
"Yeah?" said a large voice from inside. "Who is it?"
"Uh, apartment ___, downstairs."
The door opened, and I confirmed with the gentleman inside that it was his children I had seen. "They gave me this money, and told me to go to the store-"
"They been in my room!" he said, and ran off, returning with a much larger wad of bills. "More of it's missing. Thank you!" And off he ran, so I went back to my apartment with soothing cries of "WHAT YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" ringing in the distance.
Today, a nice repairman from Comcast arrived and reconnected our internet. "It looks like the cable to the street has been cut," he said. "Maybe by a mower, that happens sometimes. We'll be back to bury it again in a few days."
And there was the internet, where there had been none, and lo, it was glorious.
For about an hour, and then it cut out again. Several calls to Comcast and my apartment's maintenance people later, I learned:
"Hello, this is Apartment Maintenance."
"Hello, I just had my cable fixed, and an hour later, the cable was cut again. I was wondering-"
"Yes, it's policy to cut those."
"... Oh. Could you... not? It's only going to be a day or two until it's buried, and-"
"No, it's policy to cut them. We have children and the elderly who could trip, we can't leave a cable exposed for any length of time. Comcast knows this," she said, with an air of frustration as if to say, how could anyone hook up an internet connection and not expect maintenance to helpfully saw it in two a few minutes later?
And... here we are. And by "here" I mean "Panera, leeching off their internet and trying to continue managing an online course while fending off hungry children, crazed vandals, and an apartment complex with nothing but my best interests at heart."
It's been a long few days.
So, a little over a week ago, my wife(!) ladyarkham noticed a few of the neighbor children sitting on the front porch of our new apartment. She went out and, in a neighborly fashion, offered them some juice to drink.
They drank all of our juice. Then they asked to come see the apartment, and half-a-dozen youngsters paraded in a few minutes later. "You have chocolate cake!" they said. "Can we have chocolate cake?"
"Not unless you ask your parents," she said, and a few minutes later they had.
They ate all of our cake. Which was, in itself, all right - we're happy to be, you know, the nice people on the first floor.
The first point at which we suspected something had gone terribly, horribly wrong was the next day, when they knocked on the door at 10 AM. And then at 11. And then at 12. And at roughly one-hour intervals for the rest of the day, at each of which they asked, very insistently, for more cookies and cake and popsicles.
This process might have repeated the day after that, but around this time we left for whirlwindmonk's apartment. Returning home on Sunday morning, we discovered that (a) someone had slashed the tires on one of our cars, and (b) the internet was out, and it would be two days later before it could be fixed.
This is the point where things get a little weird.
Sunday afternoon, the nice policeman who stopped by to see about our car informed us that this was the sixth or seventh call he had personally answered in our complex today.
Monday, as I was home by myself, I was interrupted by a knock at the door. Opening it, I found one of our neighbor children, who wordlessly thrust a wad of bills into my hand.
"What's this?" I asked.
"For you," she whispered, barely audible. "Go store. Buy candy."
"I'm not going to the store right n-" I said, and she ran off. So I went upstairs to what I was fairly sure was her apartment, and knocked on the door.
"Yeah?" said a large voice from inside. "Who is it?"
"Uh, apartment ___, downstairs."
The door opened, and I confirmed with the gentleman inside that it was his children I had seen. "They gave me this money, and told me to go to the store-"
"They been in my room!" he said, and ran off, returning with a much larger wad of bills. "More of it's missing. Thank you!" And off he ran, so I went back to my apartment with soothing cries of "WHAT YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?" ringing in the distance.
Today, a nice repairman from Comcast arrived and reconnected our internet. "It looks like the cable to the street has been cut," he said. "Maybe by a mower, that happens sometimes. We'll be back to bury it again in a few days."
And there was the internet, where there had been none, and lo, it was glorious.
For about an hour, and then it cut out again. Several calls to Comcast and my apartment's maintenance people later, I learned:
"Hello, this is Apartment Maintenance."
"Hello, I just had my cable fixed, and an hour later, the cable was cut again. I was wondering-"
"Yes, it's policy to cut those."
"... Oh. Could you... not? It's only going to be a day or two until it's buried, and-"
"No, it's policy to cut them. We have children and the elderly who could trip, we can't leave a cable exposed for any length of time. Comcast knows this," she said, with an air of frustration as if to say, how could anyone hook up an internet connection and not expect maintenance to helpfully saw it in two a few minutes later?
And... here we are. And by "here" I mean "Panera, leeching off their internet and trying to continue managing an online course while fending off hungry children, crazed vandals, and an apartment complex with nothing but my best interests at heart."
It's been a long few days.