Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Peace and Quiet

In general, I'm not picky about my work environment. As long as someone is not talking directly to me, I can tune out crying babies, jackhammers, sirens, and all manner of other noises and distractions. Until yesterday.

I am not called the Zen Queen because of my quick temper. If I do say so myself, I'm known for my even temper and willingness to get along with all sorts of people under varying conditions. Until yesterday.

For the most part, I'm known as the nice quiet neighbor who gets along with everyone, even the young single guys who used to live overhead with their pot plants on the balcony and the music so loud that my windows vibrated. I'm willing to help others, take in the mail for vacationing neighbors, keep an eye out for strangers in the building, and make note of who's parking in the handicap spot without a permit. I've always been friendly and patient. Until yesterday.

A few months ago, the young men who lived overhead moved out, taking their giant speakers and their pot plants with them. All was peace and quiet for the last few months and then one night around two a.m. I heard people walking around in the apartment overhead. The toilets flushed. The shower ran. Since I'm a good citizen and a responsible neighbor, I called the apartment managers and inquired about new neighbors. After all, as I pointed out, it was the middle of the month. Perhaps someone had broken in or perhaps there were squatters in the apartment. I was more or less told not to worry about it so I didn't. Until yesterday.

Over the next couple weeks, there were more and more signs that I had new neighbors. But things were relatively quiet so I didn't worry too much. And then the banging began. Quite frankly, it sounded like they were practicing karate moves. You know--bam, bam, bam, BAM! On the last BAM! the pictures on the wall would shake. I mentioned my concerns to the apartment management. They bestowed a vaguely regretful look on me and I tried to put it all behind me. Until yesterday.

Seeking to block out the incessant banging overhead, I invested in a good set of ear phones. Plugged them in and put on a jumping rockabilly cd. Loud. That should take care of it, right? Wrong. The pounding was so loud and violent that my computer screen was shaking and I could hear it over the loud music streaming from my closed ear headphones. So. Enough was enough.

I marched upstair, huffing and puffing to the third floor and banged on the door. A tiny oriental man answered the door and immediately said, "I know. I told him not to jump."

"When was that?" I demanded. "Three hours ago when he started? Or ten minutes ago?"

Apparently, the three year old realllllly likes to stand on the couch arm and jump off! While I was standing in the doorway, the kid went and did it again! I frowned at him and said "NO JUMPING!" I must be very scary looking because I haven't heard a peep out of them since. Either that or they killed the kid off.

Ahhhhh. Peace.

Anny

If you want to have fun, join us tonight for our pajama party from ten p.m. until one a.m. EST at the Night Owl Yahoo chat loop. This one's especially for our west coast readers and writers, but everyone is welcome to join us.

And last but not least! The winner is Sudie! Please e-mail me at annycook67@yahoo.com

7 comments:

  1. Oh darling!!! This just sucks and they actually messed with the calm and peace thing you've got going on. I would've LOVED to have seen their faces when you stomped upstairs.

    See you at the chat.

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  2. I was waiting to hear that you kicked the arse of some big, ugly brute so I was taken aback that it was a K-I-D....little bugger

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  3. LOL.

    I bet that man was trying to reason with the kid when he really needed a "maternal" kick in the pants. Well done.

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  4. Sounds like you put the fear of God, er, angry neighbors into him! That's ridiculous, a 3-yr-old calling the shots! Father needs parenting tips!

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  5. Spank the Father. Lop off the kid's feet. Problem solved.

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  6. Ah the angry grandma. No fiercer creature exists. Bet Dad was ready to kiss your feet.

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