Lily's Diary

by Lily

April 15
Like everyone else, I’ve been thinking a lot about global warming lately. More precisely, my own carbon footprint. What, I ask myself, have I actually done to reduce carbon emissions? All I could come up with is that I quit smoking, converted all the fireplaces to natural gas, take Muni at every opportunity and avoid eating beans. Still, it’s obvious that I have zilch carbon credits to squirrel away. My only redeeming quality seems to be an extraordinary ability to identify the kinds of plastic that can go into the blue recycling bin. The plastic containers that hold tomatoes purchased at Costco? That’s a no, no. They have a #1 in the triangular recycling symbol and, although Tomatoes Inc. may think they are producing a recyclable container, Sunset Scavenger only laughs. The little tubs that yogurt comes in? They have a #5 on the bottom so they can be recycled. The Styrofoam “plates” under shrink-wrapped fish are labeled with a #6, banning them from the blue can. Only numbers 2, 4 and 5 are accepted in San Francisco. I tell you these things because when I see my tenants chucking contraband in the recycling can, I remove it and slip copies of Norcal’s recycling guidelines though their mail slots.

April 20
There I was in sunny San Miguel de Allende sleeping in late on Easter Sunday morning, happy that there was no language class that day and that I was no longer a member of an organized religion, when the phone started to ring. From faraway San Francisco, Ivy, the tenant in Apartment 3, told me that her medicine cabinet was leaking black water. This is one of those high, built-in cabinets typical of Victorian bathrooms backed with tongue-in-groove. The water had flowed down the wall and left a mucky mess on the bathroom floor. She had used her Fieldcrest bath towels to sop it up and now, as she spoke, was in a state of major distress. Qué desastre! Why do plumbing emergencies happen on holidays, especially when I’m spending mine in Mexico? I called my dear friend Wayne, who is not only a man of science but of an affable nature, totally qualified to deal with a semihysterical investment banker. He discovered that the tenant above Ivy (or more probably, his guest, since he is a flight attendant and lets crew members stay overnight) had not turned off the shower completely and then closed the diverter forcing the water back into the pipe (which had broken), sending water behind the wall and into the apartment below. Anyhow, having sussed out the problem and opened the diverter, he stanched the flow and mopped up Ivy’s bathroom. Tragedy derailed thanks to a dear old friend. Dinner at Joe DiMaggio’s will be his reward. As for Ivy, a new set of towels is the very least I can do.

May 1
A representative of the National Apartment Association spoke at the last SFAA meeting. I forgave her for admittedly having been an Al Gore operative because she was such a good speaker. Members who left the room after the panel discussion on city permits missed a hilarious insider’s view on the 2008 presidential candidates. Rapid fire, she gave her summaries: McCain is a nut case, Clinton is too strident, Obama will never pass muster in the south, Giuliani can’t win over the conservative base–on and on it went. One member, however, was not impressed. “What do you guys in Washington know about how San Francisco property owners get pushed around?” he asked. His question was so on-target that it triggered spontaneous applause. She said, good-naturedly, that she knew all about our problems, but that her mission was to monitor federal rental housing policy and that her colleagues on the state and local level were doing just that. And very well, I might add.

May 7
When legislation was passed in 2002 allowing roommate replacement, the bone thrown to building owners was the opportunity to approve the credit information provided by the incoming subtenant. My gut feeling at the time was not to get involved in that approval process. This view was verified by one of the attorneys at the legal question and answer period before a recent SFAA meeting. His opinion was to let the tenant go ahead and vet her new roommate and that the landlord should stay out of it. Of course, you still need to serve the incoming person with a 6.14 notice (which informs her she cannot assume the rental agreement of the original tenant, should she move). But apart from that, don’t assume any of the risk of judging the newbie. She is the tenant of your tenant, who must take full responsibility. Nothing makes that point better than telling your original tenant, “since you are responsible, anyone you judge good enough to share your apartment is good enough for me.”

May 15
After seeing the Picasso exhibit at SFMOMA (finally), my pal Evan and I went to the W for a drink. In contrast to the swank surroundings, and because we are both rental property owners, the conversation quickly took a turn toward trash. I had just been out to the toxic deposit station on Tunnel Avenue getting rid of some partially filled paint cans and, although impressed with the white-coated men and their prison guard gravitas, I confessed to Evan, lowering my voice, that certainly everyone was not going through that ritual in the name of the environment. He agreed a bit too hardily. “Don’t you know about the newspaper thing?” he said, sipping his Manhattan. I hate a know-it-all, which Evan can certainly be, especially after his second drink, but I was intrigued about “the newspaper thing.” “Provided you don’t have too much left in the can, you just spread newspapers on the basement floor or, better still, in the back yard, and dribble the paint out in a thin stream, until the papers are covered,” he told me. “Leave the top off the empty paint can and voilà, in a day or so, the paint dries and the newspapers (and paint can) are ready to toss into the black garbage can.” And here I had been hoarding my old paint cans like a huge guilty secret in the corner of the basement when, like city government, all I needed to do was to employ a little sunshine.

May 25
Once every few years, I hire someone to clean an empty apartment. I have a corny pride of ownership in the nooks and crannies of my little building and use the cleaning as an opportunity to make a thorough inventory of all the maintenance and refurbishment needs of the unit before the painters come in. But, I was in a time crunch, so, once again, I tried a cleaning person. For the three-room apartment, split bath and laundry room, I figured the job for four to five hours. But after eight hours the young woman rang my bell. She was clearly exhausted. The place was immaculate, but the cost was $200. That’s when I knew I hadn’t been keeping up with prices. The next day at the hairdresser’s I learned that the cost of coloring had gone from $40 to $55. Then gasoline hit $3.50 a gallon. Now I hear our water bills are going up precipitously (without being able to pass through the increase to our tenants, I might add). So, not wanting to be like an old aunt who sent the same five-dollar bill in a birthday card until it branded her forever as a tightwad, I added fifty bucks to my niece’s birthday check. Yes, Mr. Bernanke, there are certainly signs of inflation.

The opinions expressed in this article are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the viewpoint of the SFAA or SF Apartment Magazine. “Lily’s Diary” is written by a longtime rental property owner who reserves the right to remain anonymous on the grounds that her tenants might gang up on her. Comments, corrections or ideas are welcome at lilysdiary@aol.com. Copyright © 2007 by SF Apartment Magazine. All rights reserved.