While sitting in a marathon doctor’s appointment last night, my cell phone starts ringing repeatedly. (Fortunately it was on vibrate, that makes it easier to ignore.) The last caller finally leaves a message. After my appointment, I check my messages only to discover the frantic phone calls are from my new landlord, with one follow up by her friend who lives up here (my bay area contact for this place) and met us for the signing of the lease and the walk through. The latter is the one who actually left a message.
Apparently, they were having problems with the $2250 in cashier’s checks they’d received from me. I’m pretty sure my blood pressure spiked when I heard that one. I mean, cashier’s checks withdraw the money from your account when they’re printed, not when they’re cashed. If something had gone wrong with them, it’s not like I had another $2250 just laying around to give them, and even if I did, what about the prior $2250? In an absolute panic, I called my Bay Area contact back.
The problem? My new landlord is a dumb ass. I called before I had those checks cut to find out what name she wanted them made out to. She had them made out to her, instead of her daughter. (Apparently the account opened to receive these checks is in her daughter’s name.) So the Bay Area contact couldn’t deposit them in the bank up here because they didn’t match the name on the account.
And this is *my* problem?
Eventually someone finally talked my landlord into understanding that redoing those checks would be a massive pain in the ass, and that the contact should just mail the checks to her. Even more fortunately, the fast talker wasn’t me. I’m pretty sure my version would have involved profanity, especially after the incident with the water. (Another long story I’ll bore you with later.)
It’s a good thing I love this house. The management is not an adequate reason to move there, that’s for damn sure.
