Disclaimer:

No sticks or stones were used to build Full Moon Landing Condominiums; it rose entirely from my computer keyboard to be populated with some determined divas, a few eccentric individuals, and a dog or two.  No one in this book is pure - they are all fictionalized composites, hybrids, and exaggerations of neighbors I’ve known in the half-dozen communities I’ve lived in.  The situations are based on true events that have been embellished for the purpose of your entertainment. 

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Condo Divas - Excerpts from Diane's upcoming book

Full Moon Landing

After viewing six of the ten condos still available, Mattie chose the two-bedroom, two-bath with a view of the park.  She broke free of the realtor long enough to take her two Yorkies out to the condo’s pet area.  “I hope you like your new home, boys.  Funny how the landscape changes from one side of Seattle to the other.  Less cement here than in Ballard, that’s for sure.  Lots of tall trees to sniff and room to pee.” 

The sign at the entrance said:  Full Moon Landing Luxury Condominium Homes – 77 units selling  fast  – make one of them yours!  Bellevue’s finest complex, convenient  location, walk to QFC, Starbucks, Bellevue Square Mall, restaurants, parks, bus stops, and Park and Ride. Secure parking and storage included. 

The L-shaped wood-frame building had weathered thirty-three winters, numerous rain and windstorms, snow, ice, and a few earthquakes; that assured Mattie of its structural soundness.  Originally built as eight floors with one-hundred-two luxury apartments, the conversion boasted seventy-seven luxury condos.  She hoped that the work done during the conversion had taken care of most of the issues a condo can have – plumbing, roof, siding, electrical, and an updated interior common area.  Mature landscaping surrounded the building.  Directly outside the lobby, in the center of the L and the circular entry drive, sat a twenty-foot koi pond with a cement bottom and yards of lily pads and duckweed floating on top.  A wooden footbridge crossed over the center.  The visible sides of the pond, lined by creamy yellow tiles, moon-colored tiles, reflected the name Full Moon Landing. 

Mattie headed to the grassy stretch along side the building with the “Pet Area” sign.  Within ten seconds of paws touching grass, a skinny blond woman with a stern look on her face marched across the lawn to greet her, arm outstretched, hand clenching a Mutt Mitt.  Mattie realized her intent, reached in her pocket, pulled out three of the white dog poop bags and smiled.  The woman stopped short and stared at the bags. 

“Well, if you have them, use them,” said the woman, her grouchy tone matching the energy she used to shove the Mutt Mitt back into the pockets of the white apron tied around her waist.  “It’s a $100 fine if you don’t pick up.” 

 “If I need them, I’ll use them,” said Mattie, put off by the unnecessary warning and the unfriendly delivery of it. “I’m a Mutt Mitt girl.  I’ve always got a couple on me.  Especially with two dogs.” 

 “I hope you don’t have any cats or anything,” the woman continued in a warning tone of voice, “because the rule here is two pets per household.”  No smile on the woman’s face, just a stern-teacher look, hands on hips, head tilted forward. 

Mattie stared at her a few seconds before she responded.  Is she being friendly or informative or have I just met Full Moon Landing’s condo Nazi? And what’s with the apron?  Maybe she’s a waitress when she’s not policing the grounds.  “No, no cats.”  Then she countered with, “So are you the property manager or something?”

 “No, I’m Lydia,” she said, easing her initial commanding attitude.  “And I’ve lived here a long time, longer than anyone else.”  She eyed the dogs, who returned her gaze.  Her face softened ever so slightly.

 I’m Mattie,” she said, apprehensively, watching the woman’s face for the signs of a dog lover or someone who could care less.  “I just bought 508. These guys are Double and Trouble.”  The hint of a smile as waitress woman bent to pat Trouble’s head assured Mattie she liked animals. That Trouble didn’t back away from the pat confirmed he was comfortable with her.  If she’s OK with him, I guess I can give it another try.  I’m not looking for everlasting bonding, just a good neighbor. 

“Double Trouble – and are they?”  Her tone softened notably now. 

“At times they can be.  I didn’t name them – my daughter did.  One was fluffier and weighed more than the other, and the other was more spirited.  Who knew they’d really live up to their names?”  

 “A name is something we grow to be,” she said as she switched to try to pet Double, who ducked coyly between Mattie’s legs.  She hesitated a second, then continued.  “My husband, poor soul dead and gone these 20 years now, he named our daughter Priscilla.  I didn’t like it.  Sounds uppity to me.  So when he died, I started calling her Miss Priss.” 

Mattie didn’t know how to respond to that – was the daughter prissy?  Was that a good thing?  After an extended silence, Mattie said, “I’d better get these dogs dewatered so I can sign that mountain of papers.  I’m sure I’ll see you around once I get moved in.  Nice to meet you.”   I may have just told a lie.

And so it began.  Life at Full Moon Landing Condominiums would never be the same. 

EXCERPT 2:

Mattie sold her couch and loveseat, paid to have her piano taken to wherever old pianos go to die, and packed for three weeks straight.  She pulled her auburn hair back from her face, donned her extra-large “Salmon Chanted Evening” T-shirt and size 14 faded jeans.  Her manicured fingernails broke and split under the pressures of taking things apart, cleaning out cabinets, and wrestling with cardboard boxes and packing tape.  She had a good energy level and a happy buzz.  I am so ready to move and to not be president of the board any more – yeah! 

The buzz came close to ecstasy when she tossed ten years of condo meeting minutes and budget reports into paper bags.  Her eyes landed on a heading - “Interior Decorating Committee Report” - that evoked memories of being in the middle of rancid arguments between owners who wanted their property to look better and a tight-fisted board afraid of what the future held for the aging building.  

The six-inch-thick “Roof Repair Investigation” file reminded her of the contract she argued against awarding to the low bid, a roofing crew of two men, recommended by a fellow board member.  When she went to check on the project, she found one man nailing the shingles, the other handing them to him.  On closer observation, she saw that between them, they had three arms and twelve fingers.  The shingles were crooked and the nails didn’t look like normal roofing nails – they were an inch longer than specified.  The long nails penetrated more roof than they were supposed to, a potential source of water intrusion.  An inspector was called in, pronounced the roof unsuitable, and they tore it off to do it all over again.  What a learning experience that was. 

She took seventy pounds of condo-related paper to the Iron Mountain shredding facility in Kent.  No more board meetings or budget battles.  What freedom!  What a lot of space that took up – like gaining an extra room.   

The move went smoothly, with three somewhat ragged young men carrying a stream of boxes labeled in hasty scribbles of black marker to the truck for four hours, then unloading at the other end for three hours.  Mattie used a piece of the brown wrapping paper to draw the layout of the new condo to show the movers where to place her furniture.  She stood at the doorway and directed traffic.  During the next few hours, she had fleeting feelings of being watched, not just by the movers.  She noticed someone wearing what appeared to be a long black wig bobbing in and out of the door a few units down the hall.  Each time as Mattie turned to see, the person drew back, waited a few minutes and peeked again, like a human cuckoo clock. 

When the movers were done, the crew foreman took five minutes to explain the charges to her.  A young man of about twenty-five, Mattie noticed, standing inches from him, a pungent odor indicating that he needed a shower and a close shave.  His torn jean jacket smelled of many days worn without seeing soap and water.  She guessed from the chatter that the three men filled their off-hours by taking four-wheel-drives to the mud flats and spinning around in circles, tearing up environmentally sensitive habitat areas.

“What’s this charge on line 14?” she said, pointing at an illegible word on the statement.   He’s definitely better with a screwdriver than a pen.  I’d better check the addition, too.  “What’s the $49 for?”   

“That there’s the feel tax,” he said.  He talked fast - but there was something else going on, something wrong with his mouth, a tightness of his bottom lip. 

“...feel tax?  You mean field tax, as in out in the field?”
“No, it says feel tax,” he said, waiting for her to accept his explanation. 
“What’s a feel tax?” she asked.  
“You know, a feel tax,” he said, looking at her as though she should get it just because he had now said it twice.  She looked at him blankly. 
“I’m sorry, but just what is a feel tax?” 
“It’s a feel tax, a feel tax” he said, his face pink, frustration mounting. 

She realized what was wrong with his mouth – he had a chew of tobacco tucked inside his bottom lip.  A thin line of brown drool trickled from the corner of his mouth.  This is frustrating.  And gross.  What can I do to get to the bottom of this?  

“You know,” he said, “feel as in what you put in the tank to make the truck go down the road,” he said, tilting his head forward looking for comprehension.  Mattie’s mouth dropped open as she realized what he was saying. 

“You mean fuel, as in gas?” she said.  If he had made the “u” sound, he’d have lost the spittle. 

“Yeah!  That’s what I been saying, feel.  Gas.  It’s a gas tax.” 

“Now let me understand this,” she said slowly, deliberately, to get his full attention.  “I chose your company because of its location – I care about my environmental ‘footprint.’”  He narrowed his eyebrows in what Mattie decided was a lack of comprehension about anything environmental. “Let’s try plain talk.  I picked you guys to move me because it wouldn’t take much gas,” she said.

            “Oh.” 

“You drove seven miles to get to Ballard, ten miles from Ballard to Bellevue, and six miles back to your base, right?”

“Yup.  Sounds right,” he said, shrugging his shoulders and squirming, wondering where she was going with this. 

“That’s twenty-three miles,” she said, ready to pounce.  “Even if your truck got only five miles to the gallon, that’s less than five gallons of gas.”  She paused to let him comprehend the math.  “The tax on five gallons of gas can not POSSIBLY be $49.00.”   

“That’s our standard charge....”

“Well, you had better figure out how to correct this invoice and adjust the fuel tax - or I will arrange to have a story about it and your company on the local TV station tomorrow morning.”   

“I’ll call my boss, he’s got the final say,” he said.    Within five minutes, the tax had not only been reduced, it had been eliminated from the invoice. 

“Tell your boss that I will recommend his company to everyone in this condo, but he’ll have to keep a close watch on the extra charges, OK?”  Well that was fun.  I feel like Robin Hood or the Lone Ranger or – I don’t know – Condo Woman?