About ten years ago, I lived in a student apartment that was owned by a foundation. Since student housing is hard to come by — and has been since medieval times — you could only rent on a time-restricted contract. You had to tell them when you were supposed to finish your studies when you rented, and the contract was set to expire three months afterward. It was an unironically decent system, and if you needed or wanted to extend your studies, you could just extend your contract to the new expected end date.

Since my contract expired on the first of a month, I was quite unsure how much money I was supposed to pay them, so I went to the office to talk to them since I also had other questions. This is not the common way to do things in Sweden as we are a naturally shy people; you are expected to send all questions by email. You do, however, have to turn up at an appointed time to sign contracts and the like.

It was the beginning of March when I went to the office and had this conversation.

Me: “Hello! I have some questions.”

Clerk: *Annoyed* “Yeah. Shoot.”

Me: “How does the rent for the last month work?”

Clerk: “What?”

Me: “My contract is set to expire on the first of April. Are you going to send me a one-day invoice, or how does it work?”

Clerk: “Have you cancelled your contract?”

Me: “Cancelled?”

Clerk: “Cancelled. You have a three-month notice period.”

Me: “Well, yes, that is true, but my contract is set to expire in a few weeks.”

The clerk gave me a blank stare.

Me: “Could you kindly get my contract?”

The clerk fetched my contract after some identification on my part. The headline read, “TIME-RESTRICTED CONTRACT” in big, bold letters, and there were four separate spaces where the end-time of April first was marked. 

Me: “Yeah, so, the contract expires on the first, right?”

Clerk: “Yes.”

Me: “Well then, is everything sorted?”

Clerk: *Snorts* “You have to cancel your contract.”

Me: “Are you telling me that I have to cancel my contract that expires in a few weeks?”

Clerk: *As if I am very dumb* “Obviously, yes.”

Me: “Oookay. Well then, let us sort it out. We’ll cancel my contract on the first of April.”

Clerk: “You have a three-month notice period!”

I paused.

Me: “So… may I live in my apartment if I don’t give you my notice?”

Clerk: “No!”

Me: “But… I have to cancel the contract anyway?”

Clerk: “If you want to extend your contract, you have to provide a Proof Of Study from the university.”

Me: “I’m not a student. I intend to move home to work in my field.”

Clerk: “Then you obviously can’t live here.”

Me: “Yes, thank you, I am with you there, but have I understood you correctly that I have to cancel my time-restricted contract, which in this case will enable me to live in the apartment after the contract expires?”

Clerk: “You may not keep the apartment if you aren’t a student!”

Me: *Exhaustedly* “Yes. Thank you. But, please tell me: is my contract time-restricted?”

Clerk: “Yes.”

Me: “And does it expire on the first of April?”

Clerk: “Yes.”

Me: “And I can’t live there afterward?”

Clerk: “Yes.”

Me: “So, my contract expires on the first of April, and then I stop paying rent and move?”

Clerk: “You. Have. A. Three. Month. Notice. You have to pay rent for that time!”

Me: “So, my contract expires on the first of July?”

Clerk: “No, on the first of April!”

At that point, I mostly just wanted to get away. 

Me: “Right. So. May I live here between the first of April and the first of July?”

The clerk began to ponder.

Me: “Because I have a three-month notice?”

The pondering continued.

Me: “On the contract that expires on the first of April?”

Never before had such pondering been done.

Me: “Right?”

Clerk: “Yes. Yes, that is true. You may live here until the first of July. Sign here that you are cancelling your contract.”

Me: *Signs* “I find this quite confusing. How would you find out that I was living there if I didn’t come here today? Why did you insist on a time-restricted contract if I have to do all of this anyway?”

Clerk: “We have routines! Don’t ask so many questions!”

The clerk snatched the paper from me and walked away.

I have recounted this confusing tale many times, and a specialist accountant I recounted it to told me that they had, in fact, done a big oopsie: it is the duty of the landlord to give ME the notice when contracts are due to expire. Otherwise, the contracts apparently renew indefinitely. So, if I hadn’t come by, I might have been able to live there until the end of time without them noticing. That still does not explain why they just didn’t let me leave on the agreed-upon date.

I was a substitute teacher during the school year, but in the summer, I didn’t have a regular job. I did do online tutoring, though, to make ends meet. I would work at my computer, which was at a built-in desk in my apartment near the front door.

One summer day, a group of bored pre-teens decided to play ding-dong-ditch — a game/prank where you ring someone’s doorbell and then run away. Since I was one of the few adults at home, my apartment was a target. The first couple of times were slightly amusing, but after that, I was just getting annoyed. They were ringing my doorbell about every five minutes, so after the fourth time, I made sure to stand next to the door.

When they rang, I almost immediately opened the door. I just saw scurrying feet running into the apartment diagonal from mine. I also heard the clattering of one boy’s cell phone, as it had dropped out of one of his pockets. (It turned out to belong to the boy who lived in the diagonal apartment.) I picked it up and went back into my apartment.

This occurred before phones typically had lock codes, so I could pull up the contacts. I called the one labeled “Dad” and told him the circumstances of why I had his son’s cell phone. He agreed to pick it up after he got home.

A couple of minutes later, I heard a polite knock on the door. I didn’t open it but talked through the door.

Me: “Hello?”

Kid: “Sir, did you find a cell phone on the floor out here?”

Me: “Yes. I contacted ‘Dad’, and he’ll be getting it this evening.”

Kid: *Sigh*

My wife’s daughter was moving out of her apartment as the lease was up. She did the walk-through with management and came out clean, but she was told that all that would be returned to her was her security deposit. She was told the pet deposit was not refundable when she inquired about it.

I was very good friends with an attorney in town — fishing friends if you get my drift. [Stepdaughter] told me about the pet deposit, and I brought it up to [Friend] while we were fishing. [Friend] explained our state law concerning pet deposits: that they shall be considered as a security deposit and are, by law, refundable. I passed this on to [Stepdaughter].

She asked me to go with her to demand the pet deposit from the manager. I copied the state statute and presented it to the manager a few days later. [Manager] refused to refund it.

Me: “We will see you in small claims court!”

And I slammed her office door. [Stepdaughter] did not realize how forceful I could be.

I went with [Stepdaughter] to court. She was placed on the witness stand by the judge and questioned as to whether she tried to work the issue out first.

Next up to the witness stand was [Manager]. [Manager] tried to defend her company position such that the former management company didn’t turn over the pet deposits to her company when they took over.

Judge: “That is not this young lady’s problem. Her stepfather is correct in the law, and you will return the pet deposit. And because you passed the deadline to return that deposit, you will pay her the pet deposit and one and a half damages plus interest.”

As we left court, I couldn’t resist passing the manager in the hall with this comment.

Me: “I gave you the chance, and now it’s only costing you more.”

[Stepdaughter] started contacting other former tenants about the law, and management was overrun with small claims court, we discovered.

It’s very handy to fish with an attorney.

One day, out of the blue, I passed out in the bathroom and hit my head on the way down. There was no permanent damage, but my face got banged up and it made me self-conscious to go out in public. However, I decided to grit my teeth and go to my apartment’s leasing office in person. When I got there, the leasing agent did a visible double-take at my multiple contusions.

Agent: “Hellooooooooh, my god!”

Me: “Yeah, uh, you should see the other guy.”

Agent: “…”

Wait, I don’t want her to think I’m a brawler!

Me: “Don’t worry. The other guy was the sink.”

Agent: “…”

Wait, I don’t want her to think I damaged the apartment!

Me: “The sink is fine!”

Agent: “…”

Me: “Um. I have a question about my lease renewal…?”

I didn’t try to joke about it again.

My husband lost a bet and had to grow a beard for three months. It didn’t suit him and it made him look a lot older. He’s thirty-four and I’m thirty-three, but now it looked like we had a huge age gap. A bet is a bet, so [Husband] wore his ugly beard and started jokingly calling me his young trophy wife. 

It was all good fun until a new neighbour moved into the next-door apartment, a woman in her early twenties. She must have seen [Husband] and me together or maybe even overheard us talking in the corridor. And from what she saw, she concluded that ugly old [Husband] must be rich enough to attract a gold digger. 

From that day on, she appeared in full makeup at all times. When [Husband] went to work in the morning and when he came back, she’d always happen to be waiting for an elevator which [Husband] then had to share. Sometimes I was there, too, but it didn’t deter her. She’d make small talk in the elevator, touch her hair, and take deep-chest breaths, and the top button of her blouse would just happen to be open, etc. It was comical to watch how she threw herself at him.

After two weeks of this, shaving day arrived. [Husband], I kid you not, put on a suit and tie and went to the barbershop to have his beard taken off in style. He came back looking like his young, handsome self. Our lady neighbour didn’t recognize him. She saw him enter our apartment and, believing he was a different man, went to spread rumors about me allegedly having an affair. 

Somebody must have enlightened her in the end and told her that it was the same man. She stopped wearing so much makeup after that, and the elevator rides were also over.