Dog is My Co-Pilot

Without question, my "new" apartment is significantly less intense than the last: the police haven't been there once; no one is cooking meth (as far as I can smell); and rather than wearing a snowsuit to bed in the winter, I sometimes feel the need to prop open a window to cool the place down.

So in terms of safety and overall comfort, it's an improvement.

But that's not to say it's perfect; far from it. There was the bathroom incident, for starters. Or the fact that my landlady has a habit of letting herself in unannounced, and generally fails to properly finish necessary repairs.

And the last guy to live above me was a neurotic, heavy walker who seldom took off his shoes when he was home but often bounced on the hardwood floors at a pace Michael Phelps would be hard-pressed to match in an Olympic-sized pool.

He suffered from hearing loss, a problem he accounted for by turning his radio up to obnoxiously high decibels, his speakers just inches above the rotting hardwood that separated our abodes. In other words: I could generally sing along with his music, the tunes so clearly broadcast into my home office.

But he was a nice guy, actually, and when I once mentioned the loud music to him, he apologized profusely and generally (though not always) kept his music down. Which is to say: he put his speakers on a rug, so the sound was muffled. It was still audible, but at least it was nowhere near as distracting.

When he moved out, I was thrilled to discover his replacement was a light-walker: someone I could occasionally hear walking, but only in the same way it's impossible for anyone to entirely snuff out the sound of their steps on an old, creaky floor. His music is generally kept down; and though I can make out his television set when my apartment is silent, if I turn on something in my apartment, I don't hear his TV at all.

It was near bliss until I realized he had one great flaw — a disturbingly dark mark on an otherwise clear complexion.

He has a dog. A small, yippy thing that barked almost constantly the first couple weeks after he moved in. But rather than complain — either to him or my landlord — I chalked it up to anxiety with being in a new place and figured I'd give the pup some time.

And that seemed to work. The dog barked less and less, and in the past month or so I've heard it bark fairly regularly, but never at intervals as long or as pronounced as those first two weeks. In short: it was occasionally annoying, but the bouts of annoyance were generally short-lived.

Short-lived, anyway, until this past Friday. The dog was barking when I got home at 5:30 p.m., and barked off and on for the next two hours... at which point, the pace picked up and was a near-constant until well after 2:30 a.m.

It was around 1:45 that I finally called my landlady, something I've never done before (at least: never in regards to a neighbor). She could hear the dog barking through my phone, as though the pooch were inside my very apartment.

She was skeptical that it was coming from immediately above me, as that gentleman — as it turns out — actually has two dogs. This became apparent to me when she went upstairs (she lives in the basement, three stories removed — and on the opposite side of the building — from the sound) to make sure my neighbor was OK.

We'd theorized that either:

• He'd left his dogs alone for hours, and the yippie one was lonely and/or needed a potty break.
• He'd had a heart attack or some other major medical incident and needed help

When I heard her walk into his apartment, the yipping continued but was joined by a deep, guttural bark from a presumably much larger canine. I was terrified for a moment that she was going to be attacked but as the footsteps continued and I heard her shout for them to shut-up, I figured she was still in one piece.

So as the two dogs barked and I tossed and turned in my bed, my alarm primed for 5 a.m. and a 3-hour road trip on the horizon, I waited for the wail of a siren to come to my neighbor's aid.

But no such thing occurred. Rather than lying unconscious on his floor, he wasn't home. And hadn't been home. Instead, he'd left two dogs, one of them quite large, cramped up inside a one-bedroom city apartment, potentially all day. And most certainly all night. Maybe he checked in on them once; there was a 1/2 hour period of silence around 10 or 11 when I thought maybe he'd returned home.

But then the barking resumed, and I was no better off for the brief silence.

I was angry and irritated. Exhausted and anxious. It occurred to me to give up entirely and hit the road then, rather than waiting for sunrise. But I knew I'd fall asleep the moment I got behind the wheel, so instead I alternately packed my belongings for the trip; crashed exhausted into my bed; and then got up again when it became clear — once again — that I couldn't sleep through the barking.

This cycle continued for five hours, when at long last — around 2:30, maybe 3 — I heard the hallway stairs creak, followed by light footsteps on the floor above me.

The dog hushed, its owner (or possibly animal control) there at long last to end our misery.

Sofa King Miserable

I have a headache today. I had a headache yesterday. I don't feel well.


I didn't get any sleep Saturday night (camping interrupted by the storm of the century), and Sunday I witnessed the most pitiful site, which I'll likely blog more about later (long story short: I found my parents dog — born when I was just a kid — dying in the backyard, unable to move and being eaten by flies despite being still alive).

Suffice it to say sleep Sunday night wasn't much better. My memory is a bit of a torture device in that I can't easily erase particular images from my brain.



But this week, well... this week is off to a poor start. This morning while getting ready, an odd, distant trickle of water erupted into a waterfall from above, as a portion of my bathroom ceiling bubbled to the size of a basketball and water spewed forth, pushing plaster (and with my luck: probably asbestos) from its path, creating a puddle of water on my bathroom floor that spilled out into the hallway.

I called my landlady and attempted to clean up the mess after the deluge slowed, and she informed me that she knew they were having "problems with the toilet" upstairs, and she'd take care of it "today."

She knew they were having problems, and she waited until this happened to take care of it?

And that was TOILET WATER I was cleaning up?! That I got all over my work clothes, requiring I change... and show up for work 90 minutes late?

And now I can barely concentrate, headache and all, terrified that the leak will start up again; that Maude might eat something that my landlady leaves on the floor; that our guest cat will escape if the door is left open.

I can't wait to leave work today, and for all the wrong reasons.


Estelle Getty is dead.



But, hey, there is this. At long last, a smile — albeit bittersweet — to mark the day.

Highlights from the Recent Past

When the going gets tough, the procrastinators finally stop blogging.

So I've been in my new apartment for six weeks now, and I'm wholly convinced I should've been comped the first month's rent to make up for all the time I had to spend cleaning (i.e. not being settled into) the place. I even had to repack, reclean, and then unpack (again) the kitchen and bathroom, on account of work my landlord needed to do to those rooms AFTER I had "finished" them.

There have been other delays, too. Primarily: I've been so frustrated with the whole ordeal of even needing to move, that I feel moved to inaction.

And by that mean: every time I looked at the boxes around me, I was struck with such a sense of futility, that some days I couldn't bring myself to touch them.

I'll probably just pack them all up again in 11 months, right? I mean, what's the point in doing this over and over again, particularly in a city that treats tenants like three-week-old meat? Making changes here, as I've come to realize, doesn't really change a thing.

Not to mention, it's hard to want to clean that mysterious stain in your hallway closet when your mantra is anything but self-affirming.

"I don't care. It isn't worth it. There is no point."

So you do what you can in-between bouts of depression, only to realize four weeks in (after you've finally cleared most of the boxes from your dining room, where they'd previously been stored) that the folks who live upstairs are actually noisier than your previous neighbors.

It was so bad, in fact, that just sitting in my dining room / office was an act of self-inflicted aggression. To do anything other than leave my apartment was torture. The music was so loud, in fact, that I could make out the lyrics to songs. I could even sing along if I wanted to.

I allowed this to continue for a few days before one afternoon — heart pounding — I made the bold move up the stairs and knocked on my neighbor's door.

Their music was so loud, however, that after 2-3 minutes of intermittent knocking, I was able to confirm that they simply couldn't hear me over the the sound of Narles Barkley's "Crazy."

So I wrote them a nice letter — and I do mean nice — and tucked it under their door.

And wouldn't you know it, but one of them stopped by all apologetic — admitted they had speakers feeding directly into the floor, without a rug to muffle the sound — and within a day or two, the situation was mostly resolved (I can still hear their television at times, but I can deal with that better than I can the constant sound of a stereo).

In which case, I'm starting to (finally) feel better about the place. But that doesn't mean that old sense of futility doesn't creep up every time I go to hang a picture, or measure the windows for curtains.

I'm at a point where, quite simply, I care less and less. Whereas once upon a time I made an effort to make every place feel like "home," there's an unquestionable air of homelessness that increases with every subsequent move.

The Sound of the ScrewOr, "God Gets a New Pair of Dice"

If you've been reading me for any length of time, you know if there's one thing about my job that really gets to me, it's that no one benefits from what I do: aside from me, that is, and the machine that deposits money into my bank account.

But I digress: suffice it to say this past Thursday, I brought profound joy to someone's life — but not without some cost to me.

***I moved last week, as many of you know, and though I expect this new place will be warmer in the winter and less likely to be frequented by police, it won't be without its problems. For example: landlords in this city aren't required to clean in-between tenants, and so few of them do. My new place, then, was fairly grotesque when I moved in, and I knew it was going to take a week or two of long nights after work to really get the place clean.

So this past Thursday, my goal was to essentially power wash the bathroom: clean out the gunk that had settled in-between the tub and the sink (which some genius separated by only 1/4 of an inch); clean out years of filth from the radiator; scrub down the tub with bleach-containing Lysol; etc.

I had just started cleaning when Maude tried to sneak in behind me. I ushered her out by blocking her entrance with my foot, and then promptly shut the door to keep her out for the duration of the cleaning. I opened the window a touch to help keep the chemical-ridden air from becoming too stifling when it occurred to me to try and open the door, "just to make sure I could."

If you know me — and my peculiar brand of luck — you can probably guess what happens next.

That's right.

The door didn't budge.

And no matter how hard I tried — no matter how hard I pulled — nothing happened.

In times such as this, a brief moment of panic is almost always followed by the most MacGuyver of instincts.

I glanced around the room for anything I could use to pry open the door. Here's what I had:

• Toilet paper dispenser
• Toilet paper
• Coil brush (already used to clean out one radiator, and so was covered in grime)
• Mop bucket with a large, clunky plastic handle
• Large plastic splashguard stuck to the top of the tub
• Can of Lysol
• Bleach water

And that, my friends, was pretty much it.

By the time I'd finished taking inventory, the smell of bleach was already filling the tiny, unventilated room in the most undesirable fashion. Cleaning solvents aren't exactly known for being "health-friendly," and I'd already been battling "cleaning-related" migraines for the past couple of days.

So I turned to the window, opened it as high as it would go, and removed the screen.

I stuck my head out of the window and inspected the terrain beneath me:

The drop was just short enough that I could make it and possibly (but not definitely) survive, but just long enough — and without enough space for me to fall properly, and roll upon landing — that I'd likely shatter both of my legs, and possibly also a vertebrae or two. I could handle the broken legs, but a broken back just wasn't for me.

And there was no way for me to climb down, as there was neither a fire escape, nor enough space between the bricks for me to wedge in my feet and fingers.

It didn't take me long to process this information, though I continued to stare out of the window, imagining my Icarian descent time and time again.

So back inside I went, returning to my inventory. The way I looked at it, I could:

• Make a rope out of the toilet paper; tie one end to the towel rack, and use the other to repel my way to safety
• Pull really hard using the doorknob and/or a painted-over robe hook on the door
• Attempt to unhinge the door, which was thick with layers of paint
• Pull really, really hard
  
• Try to use the disgustingly damp coil brush to pry open the door from all angles
• Prop one foot up against the wall and pull really hard
• Strip the splashguard from the tub and see if I could use any part of it to pry open the door
• Pull really, REALLY hard
• Unscrew the door knob altogether to try and gain access to the (likely broken) pin, using either my pinkie (if it'd fit) or the coil from the toilet roll dispenser to pull it up
• Pull really, REALLY REALLY hard
• Jump

I should add that no one knew where I was, and I didn't expect anyone (i.e. Washington) to even try to get a hold of me until after 9 p.m. (it was 6:30 at the time). And even then, there was no guarantee he'd go crazy with worry if I didn't answer my phone or open the door: I'd been little short of exhausted, and he'd probably just assume I'd shut off the ringers in the quest for sleep.

Or so my brain processed the future, ultimately seeing through to a million different ways of meeting a bitter end and — ultimately — earning a spot among other Darwin Award winners.

I could already see the headlines:

Girl willingly plummets to death after being trapped in bathroom for days

Germophobe suffocates on bleach fumes

Girl knocks self out pulling on bathroom handle; suffocates on bleach fumes

Girl pokes self in eye with coil brush; bleeds to death on bathroom floor


And so on.

But I managed to somehow keep my cool (for the most part), though I will admit to cursing this city — which isn't tenant-friendly in the least — under my breath. I then worked my way down the list of options, attempting time and time again to pull on the door from every possible angle, oftentimes returning to the window to rescue myself from the buildup of bleach fumes emanating from the radiator (but just so you don't think I'm too stupid, I did dump and flush the remainder of the bleach water — too bad for me there was also Lysol settling on some of the walls).

During one of my trips to the window, I was met with the most Tantalan of sites:

A floor below me in the building next door, a woman was sitting at the dinner table with a developmentally delayed girl, perhaps 9 or 10 years old. But given the nature of their situation, I knew full well I should only "reach out" to them as a last resort.

But as I made my way down the list, I was quickly running out of options. At one point I called out to them, but their window was clearly shut and — as it turns out — does a fine job of blocking out sound. And because they were a floor below me, they'd have to crane their neck in the most uncomfortable fashion to even notice the girl in mismatched clothes and dirty latex gloves waving to them from above.

So I returned to my list, trying various options over and over again, oftentimes scanning the otherwise empty room for anything that might save me from my quandary.

It occurred to me, while watching my neighbors below, that I could try throwing something at their window. And after I exhausted the (f)utility of the splash guard, I worked a piece of it loose and chucked it towards them.

But gravity took hold of the plastic about six inches before it ever tapped that metaphysically distant window.

I was crestfallen.

So I did what anyone else would do: I tried pulling on the door really REALLY REALLY hard once more, one foot on the wall, one hand on the doorknob, another hand on the robe hook, and another (slightly less visible) hand making the sign of the cross.

I needn't tell you that I was pulling so hard that when the robe hook broke loose, I was propelled back against the radiator and into the tub with such a loud THUMP! that it was a miracle I was even able to stand up again.

I was scarcely able to gather my thoughts and count my injuries, however, as my collapse had been simultaneously met with a faint "klink!"

It was music to my ears. It was — dare I say — the sound of freedom.

It was the sound of a screw.

With the robe hook in one hand, I searched the tile for the screw with the other. I laid the hook aside — which would've shattered the window — asked my dearest Jude to bless the carpentry device — and chucked it delicately towards the window.

I knew even as I threw it that there was no guarantee the screw would make the journey. No guarantee I wouldn't crack the window. And certainly no guarantee that the woman would turn around to inspect the cause of the sound.

But it did; it didn't; and she did.

The look on her face — the scowl and subsequent furrow of her brow — was priceless.

But, again, she did something most folks wouldn't: she didn't just make eye contact and quickly turn away, pretending she hadn't seen some crazy girl waving frantically to her across the way.

She actually walked outside, bringing her scowl and furrowed brow (both well-deserved) with her.

But my journey to freedom was long from over. After a few minutes of "chit-chat," she ushered over one of my fellow tenants as he took out the garbage around the way, and he informed us that our landlady had left for vacation that very morning.

So there was no one to open the door and let me out.

It was beginning to look like the fire department was going to be my only option, but the space around my window was just tight enough — and nowhere near where a firetruck could pull up to — that I couldn't fathom them getting a ladder there.

They'd have to break through one of my doors.

I asked my neighbor if he had our landlord's daughter's number — she was in charge of maintenance emergencies — but after a few minutes upstairs searching for it, he returned empty-handed (must say, though, he was very kind — and very concerned — through all of this).

About that time another woman emerged from the home, telling me that she had the number I needed. She — as "luck" would have it — used to work with the daughter. She made the phone call that ultimately saved my sanity from what was turning out to be a steady decline.

But as everyone returned to the comfort of their abodes and I remained half out of the window like a lonely Rapunzel after a visit to Supercuts, I saw that little girl next door tilt her neck straight back — her mouth open with effort, and her stick-straight hair falling behind her — in an effort to "see" what the adults were talking about.

She looked at me, the concern on her face fading into a grin as I nodded to her — still wearing those dirty latex gloves — and offered the only thing I could muster at the time: a crooked, half-embarrassed, half-amused smile.

As I waited a good 20 minutes for help to arrive, I paced the two short steps between the tub and my door, inspecting my war wounds:

• My right palm, quite sore, was already beginning to swell
• There were painful grooves/scratches up and down my arm (from leaning on the window frame)
• My back, neck, and arm(s) were all about to let me know just which parts of them, exactly, I'd injured in my fall
• I was light-headed (remember, the room was full of cleaning products and I hadn't yet had dinner), wheezing with every other breath, and on the verge of another migraine

But you know, from the whole evening the one image I remember most clearly is that girl tilting her head back to get a look at the freak show (that'd be me) next door. And I thought of that again, laughing to myself, as I continued to wait for help to arrive.

So this, I thought, is what it takes for me to put a smile on someone else's face.

It was roughly 9 p.m. by the time my "ordeal" was over. I was tired and angry and sore and yet — still — mostly alive.

So be it.

"Hello Down There!"

Or so said my neighbor at 3 a.m. this morning as six police officers dragged him down the stairs, restraining him on the floor outside of my door.

They had already cuffed his hands but he was flailing, refusing to walk, and kicking everything that came onto his path.

"Get the feet cuffs" one of the police officers said, while another threatened to use alternative means to get my neighbor down the next flight of stairs.

Meanwhile this man howled from the floor, shouting and screaming and leaving us only with this as he was carried by a dozen hands out of the building:

"Now you can go back to sleep you [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted] [expletive deleted]!"

Whether or not that was true for the guy that lives across the hall from me (to whom the comment was directed), I don't know.

But there certainly wasn't any more sleep for me.

Disconcerting Strength

Somewhere between the ages of two and three, my mother took me into a boutique for the ritual piercing of my ears. I was quite the tomboy even that early on, but I accepted the occasion as a female rite of passage, and in fact felt privileged to have it occuring so early in my youth.

And I know what you're thinking: how could anyone remember something so trivial when they're so young?

You'd be surprised what I remember from the early days of my girlhood. Though, to be fair, this particular occasion wasn't without "incident." And as we all know, "incidents" have a funny way of forever burning their elements deep into the recesses of our pia mater. And then, too, a funny way of periodically resurfacing... often times recollected by something as vague as a distant -- and yet still familiar -- smell.

What happened at that boutique is neither a terrifying memory nor a fond recollection. But it does help to explain a bit about who I am.

You see, the gun used to insert those studs into virginal ears somehow became lodged in one of my own. I was scarcely aware of this until I noticed the look of panic in my mother's eyes, and noted that -- though the area itself was numb -- I could feel the occasional tug as the lady tried to work it loose.

But when you're young, and you're experiencing something entirely new, you don't know what to expect.

So I sat there calmly at first, only vaguely aware that something might be afoul. I heard whispers of words like "blood" and "stuck" and "this has never happened."

And still I sat there, my little heart starting to race even as I remained calm in my seat.

"I can't believe she isn't crying," the lady said, handing the gun over to one of her co-workers.

"She won't cry," someone else said. "She's tough."

That simple statement was enough to keep me firmly in my seat, refusing to utter so much as a whimper.

***That sentiment grew to become the raison d'etre of my youth. I preferred tackle football to touch, and I'd regularly seek out ways to prove my strength. When I was six, I even begged my parents to let me "jog" with my father to my uncles (he lived about two miles away -- I only made it halfway). My cousins and I had made a hobby out of play-fighting, and I generally took on the both of them, standing triumphantly over them and laughing (kindly) as I'd wait for them to catch their breath (both males -- one six months older than I, one six months younger).

Even my friends tended to view me as a body guard of sorts, having seen me wrestle with my brother (seven years my elder). I had a reputation for being "tough" -- for being "strong." For enduring nearly all injuries (I had many) with nary a shout (notwithstanding the incident where I broke my arms).

And during weight training for softball season -- my first official stint lifting weights -- it was generally understood that I'd be lifting more than my friends (though, to be fair, a couple were amazingly strong despite being smaller than me). I actually hated going to weights, though, as I was plagued by the fear that someone may prove to be stronger.
***But throughout all of this, even as life otherwise seemed to be crumbling around me, I'd do my darnedest to maintain my deameanor (which always teetered between stoic, studious, and class clown). If things weren't going well, I generally internalized... well... just about everything.

And whereas many kids who "interalize" also generally "act out," I still did well in school, never caused trouble, and never once found myself in an actual fight. Even to this day, I've never hit or kicked anyone out of anger -- though certainly there have been times I've wanted to. I always seemed to work my way out of difficult situations, either using words to maintain the peace... or, again, swallowing whatever it was I felt, allowing it to join a cess pool of other emotions in the pit of my stomach.

That is to say, I belonged to a different sort of ilk. You know... the kids who take everything out on themselves.
***For the past three years, I've been lifting weights again, off and on. I was lifting four days a week there for awhile, but then moved away from my gym only to again join one this past September. I've been lifting again, though not as intensely as I had been. I was hoping to work my way back to that, but lacked the energy to shock my muscles into peak condition.

That was, until this past week when I noticed a girl -- easily three dress sizes smaller than me, though with little to no muscle definition -- get onto a machine after I'd used it, and actually ADD weight to the routine.

I was baffled. I mean, I'm not as physically strong as I was two years ago. But I'm still generally lifting more than most of the other girls I see at the gym. So I made a mental note to start being more aggressive with my lifting.

That was Monday. And when I worked my legs again on Thursday, I started sets about 10-15 pounds more than before. But I ended anywhere from 30-60 pounds more than I'd ever done. I was amazed by how little it stressed my muscles. I wasn't even the least bit wobbly by the time it was over, though I'd expected, quite rightly, to be sore the next morning.

I wasn't. Not even a little. All I felt the next day, really, was the disappointment that comes with realizing I'd set limitations for myself that were far less significant than what I was capable of.
***I spent this past weekend apartment hunting. By the end of Saturday -- 30 phone calls, 6 stops and 15 apartments later -- I'd determined only that my apartment is a thousand times nicer (aesthetically) than anything I'd seen. I was little short of crestfallen.

The only apartments I saw that even rivaled mine in terms of appearance presented new headaches in exchange for my current ones. One decent apartment was a ground unit -- not exactly the safest place to be in a large city. The other actually required more time and effort to park than does my current abode (which didn't seem possible). The rest were disgusting, for lack of a better word. Trash in the entryways. Decade-old dirt on the walls. Carpeted stairways that appeared to have never been swept. And some of the kitchens consisted of one burner, half-fridges and deplorable cabinetry.

One property owner showed up looking like Wilfred Brimley after a bad trip and weeks without showering. He kept digging his fingers into his ears, and then would inspect his "treasure" as he continued talking. He shouted about how "stupid" the previous tenant was because he didn't close the storm windows in the winter (or so the landlord said right before adding that "this is the coldest apartment in the building" so he "couldn't guarantee it'd be 68 in the winter").

He showed me three apartments, each more awful than the last. This was early enough in the day, though, so I kept hoping things would get better.

But they didn't. Not really.

In fact, as I went from one place to the next, I nearly resigned myself to begging with my current landlord to let me renew my lease after all. I mean, so what if it's cold in the winter, the guy upstairs plays music hideously loud, and the cops are regularly called because of disputes between two other neighbors? So what if those disputes often end up right outside of my front door? And so what if management doesn't tell me before they come in to do "work," and they leave broken glass on the floor and forget to lock the door?At least the place looks nice. At least it's clean. At least it's spacious and affordable.

Because the more I saw Saturday, the less willing I was to trade in my current headaches for the ones that awaited me.

Or to put it in other terms: I've scarcely been able to eat the past 24 hours. My stomach is in knots with the sort of anxiety I was taught -- so early on -- to never express.

Or, in those rare situations, to feel shame if I do.
***And I can't say exactly what my future holds, but I do know this: tomorrow after work I'll be back in the gym for one of my longer workouts (stretch, high impact cardio, weights, stretch, light cardio).

You can rest assured I'll be piling on the weights. Adding, never subtracting.

Not at all, that is, until it hurts.

A Friendly Reminder

I've spent the last few weeks agonizing over the upcoming move. I mean, I haven't really seen any apartments that I like — aesthetically — as much as my current abode, and certainly not anything in the same price range.

Add to that it's gotten warmer, so I don't really freeze in my apartment any more AND the guy upstairs has less frequently been a nuisance when it comes to his music selection (that is to say, I still hear it sometimes — and for hours on end — but this happens only once or twice a week, whereas before it was daily).

And to make the place even more appealing, the evictees appeared to have left quietly at the end of February, as required by their notice.

But, whatever, the nail was in that proverbial coffin as I'd already told management that I wouldn't be renewing my lease. Besides, we all know if I stayed here, I'd just hate it all over again next winter. This is, after all, my life we're talking about.

Still, I've been stewing over this, quite literally, procrastinating in every regard when it comes to the move. I mean, there's no guarantee the next place will be any better for my mental health, though from what I've seen of other apartments, there definitely aren't any decently priced that look better.

So imagine my surprise last night when I was awoken by the sound of hammering at 1:30 a.m. I was in a deep enough sleep (thanks to Tylenol PM and the aching muscle that necessitated I take it) that I first only heard the hammering vaguely and subconsciously. I remember thinking to myself It'll stop. Go back to sleep now. — and I very nearly did — when the hammering picked up again, only louder.

I dragged myself out of bed and realized the hammering was coming from the hallway and yet — somehow — also upstairs. I peered through the peephole and saw someone (I don't know who) standing in the door. Behind her, the tall frame of my neighbor was scrambling frantically around in the background as the hammering continued.

But as is the nature of peepholes, I couldn't really tell what he was doing. Just that the hammering was coming from inside of his abode.

A few minutes later, two city police officers showed up and gathered just outside of my door, talking to my neighbor and his guest.

I couldn't hear everything that was said, but I caught such phrases as "well have they given him notice" and "will they remove him by force?"

The hammering desisted while the officers were there, and once they left I thought normalcy would return, ushering me into the deep sleep from which I had been awoken.

But then — for reasons I've yet to piece together — the guy across the hallway turned on his music. And quite loud, at that. We don't share any walls, but my bedroom is right next to the hallway. So while the music wasn't jarring, it was just loud enough — and just annoying enough — that I couldn't sleep (judging by the way my adrenaline was pumping, it would've been hard enough to return to sleep even without his music).

And then, finally, 20 or 30 minutes later, it stopped.

Yes! I thought. I can try again!

And I almost succeeded when once more I sprung from my bed in a jolt (as did Maude, who even beat me in the scurry to the hallway). The hammering had once again permeated the quiet, ripping me from near REM and forcing my right eye (out of curiosity as well as frustration) to peer through my peephole like the unintentionally nosy neighbor I'd become.

The hammering continued. Silence.

It continued.

Silence.

It was well after two by this point. The silence continued for awhile longer and I removed myself from the peephole for a spell, returning a minute or two later when loud voices appeared to have gathered in the stairway just above me.

I could hear them more clearly this time. I assumed, initially, that they were angry neighbors convening to determine the cause of this ruckus.

I heard them say things like "This is ridiculous" and "I think he stopped" and "Sounds like he finally turned his music off" and then — when they got to the landing outside of my door and paused in front of my neighbor's — I recognized them as being two more police officers.

They walked out and I returned to bed.

It was almost 3. I'm not sure when I finally drifted back to sleep, except that I know it was a long while. I spent the remainder of the evening tossing and turning in such a way that — if dreams are any indication — the thrashing didn't stop even when my eyelids finally closed.

I'm awake now, and at work, but hopelessly tired.

Still anxious about moving. Still worried about getting packed on time. Still worried that the next place will be no better.

But if there's one positive to draw from last night's events, it's that they reminded me of one thing:

There's a reason I'm leaving.

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

OK, so lately I've used this blog as a personal soapbox from which I shout my apartment grievances like the disgruntled city-dweller that I am.

And while it's true this is easily my worst domestic experience ever, the fact remains that various oddities and circumstances truly do follow me wherever I go. I've spent much of my life trying to determine if I'm persistently doing something wrong that I could change in future life experiences.

But no matter what I do or where I go... strange stuff just keeps happening.

Or to quote my pediatrician when I broke both of my arms at the same time, the same year I broke a foot, a toe and a finger: "No, your daughter doesn't have leukemia or bone cancer. She just happens to often be at the wrong place at the wrong time."

Or to paraphrase a friend in a recent e-mail: "I don't think it's you. But I think maybe you drove a busload of nuns off a cliff in a previous life."

I couldn't have said it better myself.

And in light of my recent gripes and complaints, I thought I'd revisit some of my other living arrangements... if only for a point of comparison. Or, barring that... to give the populi yet another reason to laugh at (and/or 'with') me.

I had four roomates at my first abode, and the four of us moved together about six times in a matter of 10 years. Two of the four were often physically ("Stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself!") and verbally ("You're rubber and I'm glue...!") abusive. The other two frequently bossed me around, even limiting the amount of time I could watch television. They refused to let me stay out with friends past 10 p.m., even on weekends and they NEVER let me ride my bike alone. For blogging purposes, let's call these people "Mom" and "Dad."

Determined to break free from these controlling roomies, thereby exerting my own idenity over their authority, I moved into an apartment at the ripe age of 19. While I was moving in, a middle-aged male who lived down the hall hung out in my kitchen, drinking Coors light (which he'd spilled all over his dirty white t-shirt) and repeatedly saying, through a drunken slur, "My name is John, and I would never hurt your daughter" to my parents. Three months later a heavy rain hit, and that basement apartment flooded. I was forced to relocate to another unit in the same building. I was offered no reparations for the hassle.

Disillusioned by the previous incident, I soon relocated to a quiet, full-sized home in the country, where I was to have a single roommate (the "stop hitting yourself!" boy referenced above). But said boy took on a live-in girlfriend (later his wife and — still later — his ex). Three people, with rent being split just two ways. This struck me as being a terrible injustice, and my complaints went unheeded. So I moved.

At my new place, a guy in his late 20s/early 30s eventually moved in across the way. He had serious emotional and psychological problems, and his mother even warned me of this a day or two after she helped him move in. He listened to acid metal which — luckily — I couldn't hear once I walked into my own place. He was always depressed, and often would come knocking on my apartment door, drunk, well after midnight. He just "wanted to talk," but sometimes his mannerisms made me quite uncomfortable.

My next move was a bit more extreme, shall we say. I paid a small fortune to rent a nice, secure place with a view. I loved it: the laundry room was across the hall, and I couldn't hear my neighbors. We were all fairly private, but friendly when we'd see each other. Everything was near perfect (rent aside) until an ex-boyfriend took to standing outside of my door, knocking for hours on end, while simultaneously using his cell-phone to call my home phone. This continued, off and on, for months.

So I moved.

Right back in with "Mom" and "Dad." I felt like quite the nomad by this point, and I hadn't the slightest idea where I'd be off to next. And though I stayed there for much longer than expected, I never unpacked. Not even my clothes.

The next place wasn't too bad. Unless, of course, you consider it to be a "bad thing" when you come in from playing tennis only to notice a beam of sunlight shining out of your door, where someone had chiseled away wood around the lock in an attempt to get in. Or unless you consider it to be a bad thing when the one of the mother's of your neighbors children (he had several) knocks on your door in a panic trying to locate her baby's daddy. But, honestly, other than these two incidents... some weirdness at the gym... and a neighbor who had a fetish with smearing, um, "nose treasure" all over the elevator panel... this place was OK.

But, still, I thought I could do better. Though it was soundproof, many of the neighbors were a tad skeevy, and there were rumors of a prostituion ring being hosted in-house (I didn't wholly doubt the rumors, either).

So I moved. And as for my next place... Well... If you've been reading this blog, you know that what happens next.

Another Wonderful Day in the 'Hood

I'm thinking of writing a letter — requesting to break my lease — sans financial ramifications.

The only thing preventing me from doing this is the harsh winter reality: it's 7 degrees outside, with promises of getting colder over the course of the next 14 days. Who wants to move in this weather?

I know I don't. But I'm certainly considering it.

As I mentioned a few posts ago, some of neighbors are being evicted for body-slamming too early in the A.M. Meanwhile they've complained about other neighbors for playing their music too loudly during the P.M.

One such neighbor thought it'd be a jumping-good idea to throw a party this Saturday. I actually like this neighbor, though I thought his birthday festivity was in poor judgment, particularly given the situation. He told me that "if the music gets to loud, just come over and join us!"

I didn't take that to be an outright invite, so I made no plans to attend. And I gritted my teeth awaiting the wrath of the evictee — who lives directly above the birthday boy.

In which case, I wasn't the least bit surprised when a confrontration occurred a little after midnight.

"Callll girrrrllll!" I heard shouted in the hallway, followed by a loud THUMP.

I retired to my door, thinking a drunken partier had mistakenly knocked on my abode.

What I saw instead was the evictee kicking the door of birthday boy.

Now, we've been advised by management to not open doors when the evictee(s) come knocking. And whether my neighbor was drunk — or simply felt emboldened by the presence of friends — I'm not sure. But he opened the door.

Words were exchanged. Insults were exchanged. And then one of my neighbor's friends joined his buddy in the hallway, ripping the evictee for his clothing choice just as he was walking away.

Oh, great I thought. That's just what you want to do. You already know he's angry and on the verge of vengeance. Insult him! That's a great idea.

The evictee slammed the front door. Someone at the party shouted "call the police!" and I spent the rest of the night jumping to my feet whenever a door was opened or closed.

It was not a restful sleep.

***
The situation became all the more real for me Monday night after I returned home from the gym. There was no music in the hallway when I walked in, so I knew the guy across the hall wasn't home.

And there was no music above me in my apartment, so I knew the guy upstairs wasn't at home. And the other tenants tend to be gone more often than not.

So imagine my surprise when I heard a knock at the door when I got out of the shower. I crept to my door, and was at least relieved to realize the knock wasn't intended for me, but rather the guy across the hall. But that relief was immediately followed by horror as I recognized the evictee as the one doing the pounding.

Splendid! I thought. He and I are only ones here.

I finished getting ready, but was constantly on edge. And then later bemused when a loud crash outside my backdoor turned out to be a bag of something (I have no idea what) thrown over the ledge above and onto the walkway below.

Suffice it to say that, when I needed to leave my apartment later in the evening to run an errand, I made sure I was on the phone with someone who could call the police in case I suddenly stopped talking.
***
I stayed home from work Tuesday out of sheer lack of sleep, which results in migraines when left unchecked. I rarely take sick days even when I'm genuinely, disgustingly sick. But I was in such dire need of sleep, I was bordering on collapse. I had to stay home.

And though I was successfuly able to sleep until about 10, attempts to nap later were thwarted by music once again radiating from above.

And to make matters all the more beautiful, it never got above a chilly 59F in my kitchen. In fact, the only room to make it to the city-mandated 68F was my bedroom, where I can trap in heat by shutting the door.

So my list of grievances is long, considering my living environment is both hostile and freakishly cold. I want to move.

But, again, it's only 7 degrees outside, with no signs of improving.

Who wants to move in weather like this?

Eviction Notice

Sure, I write the occasional haiku about a real-life event. Or, yeah, I'll post a quote-of-the-day. Or detail an incident that happens on some random road trip. But for the most part, I like to think I keep the gory details of my life off of this blog. I keep the gory details of my life out of most conversations, in fact.

But sometimes something happens. Something just distracting enough that you have a hard time thinking about anything else.

Now is one such time.

***
Late Monday evening — around 10:20 p.m. to be (slightly more) precise — I was sitting at my computer in my PJs when there was a loud knock on my door. You know the sort of knock that interrupts quiet and causes your heart to race?

It was that sort of knock.

But I was tired when I returned home from work that evening, and had been lounging around my apartment in flannel pajamas for hours. So Washington, who was watching television in my living room, went to see who was at the door.

Before I even had any idea who was on the other side, he opened the door a crack.

From there, I could only hear bits and pieces of the conversation.

I could hear Washington saying things like "You can talk to me, or I'm shutting the door" and "As far as I know, no, she didn't."

And from the slurred voice on the other side, I could make out the occasional expletive.

Eventually Washington shut the door, shook his head, and filled me in on the missing pieces.

Two tenants in my building, who live together, are being evicted. But they have until February 28th to get out, and they're on a mission to determine whose noise complaints precipitated their eviction. The seemingly drunk man behind the door was insistent on talking to me (and not Washington), but did eventually turn around and motion to the door of the man across the hall from me, shouting sundry foul names before leaving.

But Washington didn't even have to tell me who was on the other side; I could recognize the gruff voice under the slurs.

The man in question is not, shall we say, a friendly man.

He and his live-in moved in about six months ago, and the first time I ran into this particular guy in the stairway, my "Hello!" was matched with an indecipherable grunt. He's visibly agitated whenever our paths cross and — on one occasion — I was entering the front door as he was walking down the stairs inside the building.

I said "Hello!" and opened the door for him. He glared at me, his only greeting the "GO TO HELL" printed in large red letters on his black t-shirt.

Needless to say, I was fairly taken back by that encounter.

Parallel to these run-ins, the hallways in my building took on the ever-present stench of stale cigarette smoke & ammonia. An odd mixture that had my head racing with fears of meth production. I tried to rationalize it, instead, as the mark of smokers "cleaning up" their new place (my own apartment was a MESS when I moved in, and required LOTS of cleaning). The cigarette butts I'd find in the hallway were, I liked to think, indicative of this.

But this smell persisted for 2-3 weeks, by which point I was on the verge of formally expressing concern. But, much to my relief, the smell stopped.

But that's not to say this particular neighbor didn't look "out of it" whenever I'd see him. He was always flustered, but angry, and only once in the recent past did I really get a genuine, friendly "hello" out of him.

I considered it to be a mark of progress. But that was just two weeks ago, and now my anxiety concerning him has increased ten-fold.

You see, I have never filed a complaint against any neighbor. And as I have since found out, I'm only one of two tenants who didn't complain about these guys. Apparently, they fight loudly and obnoxiously — both verbally and physically — late into the night. I've never heard it myself; though their apartment is in the same "section" as mine, we don't share any floors or walls. So I wasn't necessarily privvy to their body-slamming.

I've also since learned that myself and other tenants are being cautioned to "Call 911" if we notice any suspicious activity and/or we again have unwelcome guests at our door. Seems management has noted that "retaliation" is a possibility and — given the personality of this one man in particular (his partner is generally a bit more friendly) — it could be violent.

"Why couldn't the eviction be more immediate, then?" you ask.

Because they need to be caught doing something explictly illegal first.

So now I'm worried about leaving Maude at home alone. I don't want to stay there myself, but I also don't want to leave her. I don't even want to be at work, because I'm worried about what may happen when I'm gone. At least if I'm there, I can grab the munchkin, my computer, and get the heck out of dodge.

I mean, I've had some questionable neighbors before — including one drunk who would come knocking late at night "just to talk" — but I've never quite felt this unsafe.

I didn't really realize just how much this was affecting me until I returned home Tuesday to find one of my locks unlatched and the inside security lock engaged (in other words: I tried to unlock my door but couldn't get inside because the lock that can only be engaged from the inside, well, was).

Let's just say my heart rate shot well above the zone for a good cardio-workout. My first thought was, naturally, "He's on the other side."

But after much pushing and pulling, I was able to get in. Turns out one of the pins on this security lock was out of place, but not so much that I couldn't make it snap back. But that realization didn't keep me from walking around and inspecting my apartment, with my cell phone at the ready.

So, yeah, I don't want to live there any more.
***
And you know — as crazy as this may sound — a part of me is able to empathize with these guys. I've come to realize they were part of ongoing fueds with other tenants regarding noise levels. These two were complaining about loud music; and the tenants playing loud music were complaining at the 3 a.m. judo matches.

And though I never heard those brawls, I don't doubt they occurred. But I also know that their complaints of loud music were justified. I mean, as much as I like the guy across the hall from me, he does sometimes play his music very loudly. And though I can usually only hear it when I'm in the hallway, I bet the people above him (these two evictees) hear it whenever it's playing.

And as for the guy who lives across the hallway from the evictees, he also happens to be the one who lives above me. I've often termed his music playing "thoughtless." Since he moved in 3-4 months ago, quiet-time at home has become a thing of the past. For awhile there, I heard his bass almost constantly. I even suspected he didn't work, because the music was there regardless of the time of day.

When it mysteriously stopped about three weeks ago, with only the occasional exception, I was relieved beyond belief. And yet, I likewise suspected he was out of town for the holiday and would return at any moment. But now I realize he had probably been asked to turn it down because of complaints from these two (soon to be evicted) tenants.

In which case: even if this eviction goes smoothly — sans injury or damaged property — I now suspect that once they're out, the music from above will start again.

And me with a few months to go on my (recently renewed) lease.
***So, yes, the evictees have always made me feel uncomfortable. And more recently, I've felt rather unsafe.

But even the impending eviction date offers only minimal comfort, as it likewise signals the return of that agonizing THUMP THUMP THUMP.
***I have a friend here who makes a living out of helping people find apartments and condos. He's given me some advice on this situation, and he's also on the lookout for a new place for me.

Until then... I can't get out here soon enough.

These Walls Talk

So I'm sitting here at 11:20 p.m. listening to my neighbor's music when suddenly it hits me:

I'm ready to move.

Haiku/Gesundheit (Volume VIII)

to the man who moved a half-eaten gyro to sit next to me on the train
(or "i hate to be rude, but...")

between your questions
and the smell of rotting grease
i'd like to change seats

---

on the gentrification of slums
(or "dining at a fine restaurant surrounded by projects")

you pay one dollar
and some guy "protects" your car
don't forget your tie!

---

to the man who lives upstairs

when you come home late
your stomping boots wake me up
(wish i could nap now)

---

if this is what grown-up life is about, i want to be a kid again

you begin every
meeting with "this'll be quick"
sorry for smirking

---

what to expect when everyone in your department is expecting

i'm starting to fear
your condition is catching
please don't sneeze on me

---

on discovering that flax is nutricious & delicious
(or "did you take your zen vitamin today?")

three pounds or five tons:
i never realized buddha
could be this tasty