Won’t you be my neighbor?
It’s almost 1am, and I am still awake. I’m flying to Colorado tomorrow morning, and I’m so frenzied with excitement that I simply cannot go to sleep yet. So I have spent my evening doing laundry and showering.
Both of which I feel bad about doing.
See, there is a sign clearly posted in the laundry room of my building that says, “NO LAUNDRY AFTER 9PM.” But what if I simply am not home until after 9pm? I break the rules. I’m very sorry for the person whose apartment is directly over the laundry room, who is forced to listen to the loud CLACK of my jeans button inside the dryer. But I had to do laundry tonight – it was a state of absolute emergency.
Equally dire was the need for a shower – and so I hopped under the faucet around 11:30. I’m sure that the water roaring through the pipes was disturbing to the neighbors, but again: had to. Also, I had to blow my hair dry at 12:15am. I did not need to drop my box of hot rollers onto the floor at 12:30, sending rollers skittering across the hardwood floors and echoing through the hallway and surely to be heard in the apartment below. But I did that anyway.
This morning, when the girls showed up for Bible study at my house, they opened the door just in time to hear the crack of my now-shattered ceramic coffee canister against the tiled floor in the kitchen… followed by a loud expletive. I then proceeded to vacuum my kitchen floor at 7:30am.
My poor neighbors.
One time, I found a note taped to my door: “Please refrain from loud talking or laughing after 10pm, especially on a week night. Signed, your neighbor.” I was strongly tempted to respond in kind with a note of my own: “Please desist from your customary loud morning sex. Signed, the Yapper.” But I kept it together, mostly for the sake of awkward face-to-face encounters in the stairwell.
I live in fear of my landlord – although I have never actually seen her. Our uncomfortable “relationship” began when I called the apartment building, and heard a deep, manly voice answer. “Hi Mike,” I began, thinking that it was the maintenance guy who I had already met. “This isn’t Mike – this is Louise,” was the response. Oh…
I have lived in this building for 2 years, and have never seen the actual landlord. Oh, I have seen the notes posted by her, reminding the tenants that their rent is due, or that she will no longer be providing a bin for recycling junk mail, or to please refrain from flushing “paper towels, sanitary napkins, or small furry animals.” People, THAT HAD TO HAVE HAPPENED IN ORDER FOR HER TO MENTION IT!!! Sick.
I’m afraid that I’m the girl in the building that everyone talks bad about. Like, they have their “cool tenant” club that I don’t even know about, because I’m too busy making life crazy for everyone else. But I don’t have time to worry about that – I need to go rearrange my furniture.