Last week, in a fit of rage (or better, mild annoyance), I wrote a strongly worded letter to our management company. Actually, the owner of the company, I think. It was the only contact info we were ever given.
You see, a few months ago, the owners of our condo changed management companies. The old management was awful and we were glad to have a change. There were plenty of things that needed fixing and changing and we hoped the new management would be more responsive.
They weren’t. Our air conditioning broke in August and despite calls and emails, it wasn’t fixed. Finally, Pokie wrote an angry email and the job got done.
I have emailed and called him a few times over the last few months. He responded only once and promised to come over the next day and see what needed to be done, but he never came.
Our apartment has lots of broken drawers, a broken coffee table, no working vacuum, and stained carpet (although a large chunk of money was taken out of our deposits for carpet cleaning) that have never been attended to.
Last week, Priscilla and I went down to our storage unit to get some things and were surprised to find that our keys did not fit the lock. Upon closer inspection, I realized the doorknob had been replaced! We were never told and were never given the new key.
So, frustrated and irritated, I wrote the email. I hesitated to send it because it was much more bold than I am. I’m not usually an outrightly confrontational or mean person but I had clicked send, and there was no going back.
The next day, I was awoken from my Sunday afternoon nap by Priscilla who told me that a man was here to fix our drawers. I groggily answered his questions, and he talked to Priscilla about the other things that needed to be fixed while he looked at our dresser drawers.
He was a nice man, probably in his fifties, and was dressed in church clothes. He talked to us about the talks we had just heard at regional conference and said he had come to our apartment straight from church.
When I realized that this was who I had emailed, I was so embarrassed. He asked which one of us had emailed him, and Priscilla quickly pointed at me. He said that he would try to come back over in the next few days and fix the drawers and figure out why we couldn’t get into our storage area.
I felt awful. Here was this kind, friendly guy that probably had cute little grandkids and whatnot and I had written him a nasty email.
[I felt something like this.]
I came home yesterday to find that our carpets had been cleaned. We also found out that our management company was not responsible for the storage unit door incident (the handyman of the upstairs apartment came to fix their lock but got the number wrong so he changed our doorknob instead). He came over this morning to fix the drawers and I was so ashamed that I could hardly look him in the eye. He probably thinks we are a stinky little apartment of cold-hearted, spoiled snots. And I am the worst of them all.
Lesson learned. Don’t write anything you’ll regret.