Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

June 11, 2008

It’s been kind of a long week. Tuesday was … bad. Extremely bad. So bad it wrecked our evening and made Wednesday pretty much a wash.

Almost since we moved in here we’ve had trouble with the people who live upstairs. It would be generous to say that cotton batting separates the two floors, and so almost every movement they make (subtle or not) is translated into punishing sound waves. With Katie’s headache, it’s been rough. We’ve worked with the office, we’ve tried to get them to understand the problem, and nothing has worked.

To some extent, it’s just something you have to deal with when it comes to apartment living. Hearing unappetizing sounds like toilet flushes, catching strains of incomprehensible music, even enduring co-ed gymnastic events … well, I lived in a dorm for four years. It’s not much different. However, there are differences between this and dorm living. For example, it costs a lot of freaking money to live here. I pay insurance, utilities, etc, etc … and so I expect a few things out of apartment living that I didn’t from dorm living.

First and foremost is the ability to not be threatened by bullying idiots. That’s been a problem with these people, on more than one occasion. Second: I expect not to be lied to, to be treated like the adult I’m pretending to be. Third: Real-world rules apply. This is the big-time now, no more schooling, no more books.

That last bit has been a sticking point over the last two weeks. I ended up calling the cops on them *last* Tuesday because of a domestic disturbance. Think those ‘The More You Know’ ads about not ignoring warning signs and you’ll have some idea of what I experienced.

This Tuesday, to make it a fun anniversary of the last time around, they started smoking pot. A lot of pot. “Now Michael”, I know you’re saying, “don’t be a fricking prude. It’s their place and they can do what they want.” I completely agree. I couldn’t care less what they do in the privacy of their own apartment. The problem is twofold, though. 1.) When they’re stoned they bang around, a lot. Like, knocking safes onto the floor banging. 2.) More seriously, because this complex was designed by geniuses, their pot smoke filters down through the vents into our apartment. Specifically into our bathrooms. My assumption is that they turn on their ventilation systems and it sucks their pot-shitty air down through our vents.

Normally the doors to our bathrooms are left standing open, but this past Tuesday a stray gust of air had blown it shut. Fast forward to later that night, as the idiots upstairs are deep into ganja territory, and you have a recipe for hilarity. Opening the door almost made me throw up. It certainly made me sick to my stomach. So I did what I had to do, what they’d forced me to do by being so unbelievably stupid. I called the cops again.

I don’t like doing it, I don’t enjoy doing it. In fact, I hate doing it. I’m no ‘narc’. As long as you’re not hurting me and mine you can do whatever the hell you want. But, you damn hippies, was over the line. You hear me, you bleeding hippies?

In any case, they’re out on their asses at the end of next month. The complex isn’t going to renew their lease and they were heading off to ‘greener’ pastures anyway. Just a month and half of their nonsense to put up with.

Here’s hoping it goes by quickly.


One comment

  1. Ugh. I feel for you. I really, really feel for you. I’ve been a “you whipper-snappers get off my lawn” style old coot since my early teens, and I’m well-versed in being driven nuts by inconsiderate neighbors of all stripes. I’d go bat-crap crazy having to share a wall, ceiling, or floor with people like that.

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