Month: June 2021

4 Min Read

Being audibly abused is never thrilling.

It just might make a nice guy resort to killing…

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By now you may be starting to suspect that I’m dead-set on airing every single one of my grievances I have with a recent vacation property we stayed in, the slowly-becoming-infamous Eden Cove 9 (aka EC9), and the crack team of property managers we rented it from, Better Beach Rentals.

And you would be absolutely right. Though, in fairness, it’s more about celebrating the absolute mind-screw that staying at EC9 was, rather than just ragging on a poor defenseless property and property management company.

So far though, it hasn’t been such a terrible mind-screw…yet. Bear with me, though, as I slowly and methodically build my case. For sake of time, I’ll give you a tl;dr¹That would be short for “too long; didn’t read”. refresh on the first two Levels of Purgatory that I’ve covered so far: too many stairs, and a non-working elevator coupled with crappy customer service. There, consider yourself caught up.

Now let’s get on with this Never-ending VRBO Review of Eden Cove 9…

Level Three: The Tale-Tell Heart, EC9 Style

“Chirp-chirp-chirp!” *Random amount of time passes* “Chirp-chirp-chirp!”

No, we didn’t have a bird trapped in the house. That would have been too easy. Nope, you guessed it: we had a rogue smoke detector going crazy on us. Just wonderful.

The worst part was that it was on the first level of EC9, where my mom’s and the Elder’s rooms were located. And it didn’t waste any time assaulting them either: it started going off-script just as those two had settled into bed on our very first night there.

At first Mom’s theory was that it would chirp every 5 minutes, but wouldn’t you know it, the second she called me down to desperately ask for help, it wouldn’t follow that pattern. In reality, it was merely lulling us all into a false sense of security. After no activity after 15 minutes of mind-numbingly boring waiting, we concluded that it had gone back to behaving, and Mom and the Elder settled back in for the night.

They were finally drifting off to sleep, and then BAM–it attacked again without warning with another vicious “Chirp-chirp-chirp!”

My poor mother was starting to be honest-to-goodness traumatized at this point in time. But at least she had the good sense to flee her abuser, as she wisely grabbed some pillows, and with the Elder in tow, hiked up to the second level of the house where she sought refuge on the couches in the living room. Not that it completely solved the problem; she later told me she could still faintly hear it chirping from all the way up there, keeping her awake.

Nonetheless, I would say that an uncomfortable night on the couch would be waaaaay better than never being able to fully fall asleep, living in constant fear that the smoke detector could beat the living shit out of your eardrums, unprovoked, at any given moment…

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I swear to the Higher Powers That Be that this smoke detector was a legit psychopath. Like, evil genius, there’s-a-special-place-in-hell-for-you level psychopathery. All throughout the next day, it behaved itself and didn’t make a peep. But once again, it was all just a ruse in order to take advantage of over-trusting upright citizens.

Around 6:30 pm that evening, that asshole declared his presence once again with a belligerent “Chirp-chirp-chirp!”

“Ah, hellz, no!” I declared to one in particular as I marched downstairs, and with phone in hand. I wasn’t going to tolerate this tormenting of my family; it was time to bring in the professional, so I dialed up BBR’s after-hour maintenance guy and told him to haul tail over there lickety-split!

An affable fellow, perhaps college age, he and I hit it off as we tried to scientifically deduce what the heck was going on, and how to remedy it. However, what made it so difficult was that we couldn’t repeat the error. This is what was so maddening–there was no way to really know we had fixed anything besides just…waiting. Uggh.

After an hour or so of chasing our tales, all he could do for me was change all the batteries and wish me the best. Of course, most of the time dead batteries are the cause of random-ass chirpings, so we were somewhat optimistic that the problem was solved.

“What if…what if it starts beeping again?” I asked, knowing that it was wise to hedge my bets.

He informed me that if it persisted, the only remedy would be for him to replace it with an entirely new one, and that in the meantime, I had his–wink-wink–“blessing” to go nuclear on it and completely rip out not only the battery but the entire unit if it came to that.

Welp.

You can bet your bottom dollar that it came to that. It only took until about 9:30 that night before that little ----- chirped its last “Chirp-chirp-chirp!” before I ripped its throat and heart out and buried it deep in a pile of towels on the second level.

NOW the problem was solved!

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“CHIRP!”

It was barely an hour after my rage-fueled dismembering of Sir Psycho Smoke Detector, and it must have been so traumatic I could swear I was hearing impossible things. I wrote it off as attributable to the PTSD that comes when you snuff the life out of something in cold-blood, and went back to researching kitchen tile backsplash options.

“CHIRP!”

Nope, that was real, and was definitely coming from that pile of beach towels. I must have forgotten to take the battery out…

As I got up to finish off the tenacious beast, something caught my eye. Sitting there on the kitchen counter was a 9-volt battery…the very one and the same that I knew I had taken out earlier that evening.²I truly believed that if I had done what I was about to do next–walk down to the beach and heave into the Atlantic Ocean–that it still would have somehow found a way to make it back to the house and chirp at me, its ruthless killer.

You have got to be ----- kidding me.

Good god, have I moved my family into the Haunted ----- Mansion?

(Tune in next time to hear more…)

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Content created on: 24 June 2021 (Thursday)

5 Min Read

Now, if you’ll turn in the Good Book to Proverbs 20:17:

“Stolen bread tastes sweet, but it turns to gravel in the mouth…”

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“Guess what kids?!? Your Pops just won you a free five-week stay at the beach!!!”

Yep, that’s right, we’re still talking about that one time I outsmarted our insurance company and subsequently found myself and my family taking refuge from our home remodeling project at a beach house in Oak Island, NC.

But not just any beach house! It was the one and only luxurious Eden Cove 9 (aka EC9), managed by none other than the soon-to-be-discovered ironically named Better Beach Rentals. And, today, friends, we shall continue our voyage of discovery as I continue my extended review of the whole EC9, um, “experience”.

First, recall from last time how I shared our initial encounter with EC9: all those ----- stairs. Now, “vacation house has too many stairs” is really an unfair complaint for any beach house. But leave it up to Better Beach Rentals to take a minor inconvenience to–and pardon the pun–a whole new level. Level of Purgatory, that is…

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Level Two: The Mystery Of The Moving Closets

“Honey, have you been able to get into any of these huge coat closets? The doors seem to be jammed.”

Since we had brought half our belongings with us to our Oak Island home, I was rather appreciative of the idea of having ample storage space on each of our three living levels, but it wouldn’t do us any good if we couldn’t get into them.

Even after pressing the button next to each door, nothing happened. They didn’t appear to magically unlock them as I had hoped. Nuts.

But after briefly trying and then getting on with settling in, something odd kept banging around in the back of my mind. Back when I was trying to decide whether to rent this place, I had read several reviews for this unit and for some of its Eden Cove brethren. In passing some previous patron had lamented that it was “a pity that the elevator was out of order.”

Holy shit, Batman.

How could I have been so dumb? The VRBO listing wasn’t kidding around about all the luxury that awaited us during our stay at Eden Cove. What is even more luxurious than huge coat closets? That’s right–we had our very own elevator up in the place!

I admit that it took me an embarrassingly long time to put the puzzle pieces together, but there was no doubt about it. That was definitely an elevator.

This realization came at the end of our first day there, and while we had moved most of our stuff in already, we still had several bulky items such as desks that still needed to be hauled up to the top floor. So an elevator was a sight for sore calves indeed!

Of course it couldn’t be that simple could it though? For the life of us we couldn’t get the dang thing to work. The only call button that even lit up when pressed was the one on the ground level, but then it would just flash at us and proceed to do exactly jack squat.

Now, for completely unrelated reasons, I shortly found myself on the phone with BBR’s after hours maintenance guy, and after he solved my problem, I happened to casually ask if the elevators were supposed to work. To my delight, he said that the owners had been making an effort to get them in working order, and that he would happily put in a work order to have it fixed!

Oh boy, Monday couldn’t come soon enough! That night I could barely sleep due to the anticipation of having access to private and convenient elevation. ‘Twas indeed a night filled with elevator repairman fantasies–of the PG kind, of course…

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Have you ever sat around and waited for the mail all day? Or otherwise found yourself in a holding pattern while you waited for something important to happen?

So then you know what my Monday was like. Expecting the elevator guy to show up any minute, I put off any task that involved my focus for more than 10 minutes, including important things like going on a grocery run so my family wouldn’t starve. Or fun ones like enjoying with the girls this beautiful oasis that awaited us just out the back door:

It also didn’t help that we were harboring two pets that, if discovered, may or may not have gotten us kicked out onto the street with no refund. Thanks to the presence of Frank and Anne,¹Not their real names. the prospect of a stranger coming into our new home had us all on high alert, and I had to constantly be prepared to hide them and all related paraphernalia in the attic at the slightest hint of someone coming to visit.

Anyways, come 4 pm Monday afternoon, and still no there was no sign of the elevator guy, so I called up BBR and asked them what the dealio was, yo. They seemed to be very helpful, and said they would follow up and give me a call back. “What great customer service!” I thought.

Well, come Tuesday around noon–and another morning wasted waiting–and still no call back from BBR. So I had to call them up again to see what the heck was happening. They apologized and informed that the repairman was scheduled to come sometime in the morning the next day, and that, per my request, would call 15 minutes ahead of time.

At this point, I don’t think I have to tell you that I wasted another half day Wednesday waiting for this ----- guy to call. Finally, around 2:30, I called BBR out of exasperation, only to be told that, actually, he had already came and went.²The elevator on ground level is open to the outside, so it is perfectly plausible that one could work on it without ever setting foot inside. The diagnosis was that it needed a new control board, and–good news! The order had already been placed! Now, it just a matter of waiting for the part to come in.

More waiting. Of course, it was more waiting…

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Fast forward to our last few days there, approximately 4 weeks later. After having the convenience of a working elevator to make moving all our stuff out a breeze, The Boss Lady and I couldn’t stop gushing the whole ride home about what an amazing, pampered, living-in-the-lap of luxury, 5-star, first-class service that Better Beach Rentals had really delivered!

…

Of course I’m J.K. Kidding.

No, not once did we get to ride in the elevator. Not a single ----- time!

Remember, I asked them to fix the elevator on our very first night there. They had 5 weeks to get the job done. What kind of shit-show ass-clown circus are they running over there anyways?

Though, by the end of our time there, we concluded that like hell we would ride in it had they got it working–no doubt we would have ended up either trapped for a week (best case scenario) or plummeting to the bottom in a manner that most people only have nightmares about.

“So why did it never get fixed?” you might as well go ahead and ask.

Well, I think maybe once in the interceding weeks did I try calling and following up on the “part” that was supposed to be coming in. But, about a week and half in I realized a cold hard truth: they had just been blowing smoke up my ass in hopes that I would either forget about it or get tired of waiting.

There was no part coming. Hell, there probably wasn’t even an elevator repairman. Wait…was there even an elevator in the elevator shaft?!?

I could feel the creeping suspicion that something was off about this place.

“This place is fancy af. This place is fancy af. This place is fancy af…“

That much was clear from the online listing, and I just had to keep repeating that to myself. Then it would have to be true, right?

Unless there more evidence emerged that suggested otherwise…

…

Yeah. That was indeed a foreshadowing of many installments of The Better Beach Rentals Review: The Extended Director’s Cut.

In other words, stay tuned…

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Content created on: 17/18 June 2021 (Thurs/Fri)

4 Min Read

To say that it was “A Vacation From Hell” might be a bit of an exaggeration.

Just barely, though…

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“Here at Better Beach Rentals we are working to be better everyday. In order to get better, we need your help. Please take a few minutes to review the home and your Better Beach Rentals vacation experience…”

I sat there staring at my computer in disbelief. Before me: an invitation to leave a review for Eden Cove 9 (aka EC9), the beach house in lovely Oak Island, NC, in which we had just spent 5 weeks living in while our regular home was being repaired and renovated.

Did they really want my honest opinion of my experience to be shared with others? I grinned wryly to myself, as I couldn’t help but think that they might just end up learning a little life lesson about “being careful what you wish for.”

Frankly, though, the breadth and depth of things I had to say about our experience with these asshats was so immense, I realized there was no way I could ever write an appropriately succint-yet-thorough enough review. At least not one short enough for the attention span of unwitting potential vacationers who would otherwise be blissfully unaware that Eden Cove 9 is, in fact, quite possibly a Gateway to Hell.

So instead, I turn to you, Dear Reader, to spread the EC9 anti-gospel. Though to convince you, be fore-warned that it’s going to take several sessions…

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First, some context though: one must recall how we ended up in such a luxurious beach house for such a long period of time in the first place. The overly-long version can be read here, while the brief version is that I was clever and mischievous, and forced our home insurance company to let us stay in “absolutely the most luxurious town homes on Oak Island” instead of some milquetoast property closer to home, much to their chagrin. And best of all, good ol’ Amica Insurance was footing the bill for our month-long semi-vacation at the beach!

In other words, we were going into it brimming with excitement that were about to live fancy af for a little while. It felt like we were at the foot of the Mountain of Purgatory, and the only way to go was up. “Could this be the beginning of Heaven?” we wondered aloud to ourselves…

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Level One: I Guess I’m A Drug Mule Now

Since we have a lot of ground to cover, and I don’t want to take up your entire Sunday afternoon, it’s best that I ease you in gently to begin with. I’ll start off with a rather boring topic: stairs. But oh, were there so many ----- stairs.

Now this one is probably on us. You see, we’re what you might call “Flatlanders”–folks who live in a ground-level single-story home, and the most stairs we have to encounter in one day are the two steps from the sidewalk up to our porch. Yeah, maybe it was foolish of us to rent a place with pictures like this in the listing:

“What a wonderful view!” you might say. Yes, indeed, but did you ever consider the price you might pay to enjoy such a view? We sure didn’t–but we know the exact cost now: 3 excruciatingly long sets of stairs.

And if you’re wondering why you would need 3 sets of stairs for what is apparently only a 3-story townhouse, it’s because what the trees in the picture are hiding is all the carports that comprise the ground level. That’s right: we had to traverse a steep-ass set of stairs just to get in the front door.

Further exacerbating the situation was the fact that they put the kitchen and living room on the gosh darn middle level, meaning that any time we got groceries, we had to heave-and-ho them up two ----- flights, all the while trying avoiding tripping, slipping, and breaking our necks.

Now all of this might have been fine and dandy if we were only there to have a relaxing 1-week vacation. But oh, no, it could never be as simple as hauling a mere 5 suitcases up those stairs. Were we there to relax and relate? Heck, no! We were there to work and live on a semi-permanent basis.

That meant we needed in-house childcare, so at all times we had at least one grandparent living there with us, too. So even more possessions to haul in and out and up and down! Oh joy!¹For the record, their contribution to the quantity of said possessions was actually negligible.

In total, there were 3.5 adults, 2 children, and 2 “dogs”²For legal purposes, we can neither confirm nor deny whether or not the pets staying with this were or were not actually of the canine variety. living there at any given time. In other words, we had a lot of shit to move in, and once you throw in the work and school desks for those of who still had to work remotely and attend virtual school…

Well, you probably get the gist already, but let me throw in a visual aid for good measure. Around the time we moved in, my go-to attire for below-the-waist were Adidas jogging pants that had zippers at the ankles instead of elastic bands. Well, the morning after we moved into our new accomodations, I went to put them on only to find that I couldn’t zip them down over my swole-ass calves–nearly busting the zippers in the process!

I couldn’t help but immediately think of an infamous comment³https://www.newyorker.com/news/amy-davidson/steve-king-and-the-case-of-the-cantaloupe-calves by the dishonorable⁴The guy got disowned by the Republican Party, for fuck’s sake. So I think it’s safe to objectively state that he was a bit of piece of shit, regardless of your political affiliation. former Congressman from Iowa, Steve King, making a case for keeping any and all Mexicans out of the U.S.:

For everyone who’s a valedictorian, there’s another hundred out there who weigh a hundred and thirty pounds—and they’ve got calves the size of cantaloupes because they’re hauling seventy-five pounds of marijuana across the desert…

Politician who somehow managed to be too racist for the Republican party

Well, what a pleasant surprise! I went into this with zero expectations of achieving my life-long dream of developing calf muscles that could scare the shit out of raging bigots, but alas, here we are…

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Logically, this leads to one of the topics of the next installment of Eden Cove 9: The Extended Vacation Rental Review: “If only there were an elevator…”

Believe you me, I’m just getting started, so stay tuned!

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Content created on: 9 June 2021 (Wednesday)