Let me tell you about my neighbors. Actually, it’s more like just one of the neighbors. Actually, it’s more like 3 neighbors in all, because 2 of those neighbors determined how I came to live above the 1 neighbor in question.
I moved into my apartment about 3½ years ago because my married friends purchased a duplex and wanted the upstairs tenant to be more reliable than the pizza delivery guy with drug and rent paying problems who came with the building (and who, it turned out, I sort of knew, but that’s neither here nor there). The existing guy left, I moved in, and aside from a persistent colony of bats in the attic, everything was cool for a couple of years.
Then the male half of my friends/landlords got a job in Michigan, where the female half was from. Instead of selling the building, they decided to rent the downstairs to the male half’s sister and her boyfriend. The description of her I got from everyone was a wince, followed by, “Well, she’s gotten a little better since she found her boyfriend.” I wasn’t too alarmed because I’m not a communal living kind of person. You stay in your place, I stay in mine, and we can be civil when we see one another in the basement on laundry days.
I met her boyfriend first. He’s one of those people who’s almost disarmingly nice. I barely know what to say when we speak in passing, because he’s always very upbeat and forthcoming. If I could live above him all the time, I wouldn’t have a problem.
His other half, though, is another story. She refused to meet me face-to-face for months, and I now think she might be actively avoiding me. When we’re close enough to exchange pleasantries and I wave, she stares blankly ahead and doesn’t say a word. To me. She’s more than happy to chat with Graham, which leads me to believe that she’s one of those bitches who hates women because once upon a time, it was easier to blame another female than the cheating douchebag who screwed her over in the first place. I hate those kinds of bitches.
I also hate the kind of bitches who are so rotten that it seems everyone else hates them; friends of my friends are still coming up to me and saying, “I heard you live above Nikki.” Wince. “How’s that going?”
She’s loud. Like, really loud, and not just when it’s overlook-able. It’s inconsiderate loud, like 1am-on-a-Tuesday-night foosball tournaments loud, and door slamming loud. Oh my GOD, the door slamming. It’s as if they’re practicing for the apocalypse and pretending to crush zombie heads in the doorframes. It’s not the occasional, “oops, I was carrying in the groceries and there was a draft!” door slam. It’s constant and it rattles the walls in my apartment.
I didn’t always hate her – aside from the volume, for awhile it was still very much “you stay in your place, I’ll stay in mine” – but then I invited her to my birthday party (because I am gracious). Someone should have told her that if you’re on the sunporch, the person on the neighboring floor can hear everything you say. Crystal clarity. So imagine when I spent the day of my birthday party cleaning and took a break on said sunporch to hear her say, “And then we get invited to her stupid fucking birthday party…”
Hey! You’re welcome, you grotty bitch! You’re the #2 reason I can’t wait to buy a house of my own!
Which isn’t going so well, by the way. Due to a nearly 8-year-old credit judgement I didn’t know I had, I was denied pre-approval from a bank. Damn. Damn damn damn. So now I’m trying to track this down and fix it or dispute it or whatever, because I need this pre-approval. This has to happen soon because I’m already looking at listings and my lease is up in October.
When I write these entries, I first type them out in WordPerfect (because do you have a shitload of money for the Microsoft Office Suite on a 6-year-old Dell laptop? You do? Can I have some?), edit them, paste into Blog City, and edit again before posting. Most of my entries start out as rambling, crazy person diatribes and are whittled down to the streamlined visions of brilliance you see here. In this case, I had about six more paragraphs of temper tantrum about house buying tacked on. After sleeping on it and re-reading maybe four times, I decided to save it for another day.