I've never wanted to be a landlady, but it seems that I am one. (At least two of my tenants are my sons.) (That sounds as if perhaps more of my tenants might be my sons also but that's not what I meant.) (I only have two sons.) But to get on with this story, last May, right after the home-invasion robbery/burglary, some friends of my son R. asked if they could crash at the house for a little while because they were between apartments. As we were all of us in a daze, I said yes -- they seemed like nice kids -- but the "little while" turned into six months, when both my sons insisted that they move out because of their slovenly habits. I thought: how bad can it be? (Note: I don't live in this house.)
Well.....today I found out. N. had been telling me that these tenants left quite a pile of crap behind, and that he'd been down in the basement cleaning it up in 15 minute increments. Fifteen minutes! What is wrong with my son? --I wondered.
Oh. My. God. When I finally viewed the tenants' remains (sounds like they're dead, doesn't it?), I had to remind myself that this is after N. cleaned up, repeatedly. I've never experienced anything like it: parts, pieces of unmentionable things. Tissue things. Old food. Soiled dishes, cutlery. Sex toys. Sex toys! I'm no prude, but for god's sake, put 'em away when you're finished! And pack 'em up when you move! The candy/candy-wrappers, empty pop cans, general paper-waste -- though ankle-deep, were innocuous in an oddly refreshing way in comparison with the, uh, other "treasures."
Yikes. We loaded up R.'s car with plastic sackfuls of garbage. Swept and swept and swept. Thankfully, I had my gardening gloves in the car. We opened windows and turned on fans. After about an hour, N. said "I'm done! Can't do anymore!" R. and I agreed. Enough is enough.
Next time I'm there I'll bring out the spray bottle of bleach solution and kill every single remaining bastard bacteria that lingers. But at least, now, the debris is gone.
It's time for that glass of wine. Or two. Or three.