Here in the Heartland, we're in the middle of a major winter storm today. It snowed pretty steadily for two days, and then last night, we got freezing rain on top of it all, followed by a steep temperature drop, followed by more snow. What this means in practical terms is that I knew my place of employment would either be closed today or, at the very least, running on a delay. Extrapolating further on this set of circumstances, I should have been able to sleep in today--yes?
No.
At 6:30 this morning, something woke me up. A noise outside my window. An awful, continuous, scraping noise. Scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape. It went on and on. I roused myself to look out the window, and there was my neighbor, Chuck (who lives in the apartment formerly occupied by Hippie Neighbors), shoveling the walkway in front of our building. At 6:30 in the morning.
You know that awful feeling, where something is happening that just annoys the crap out of you, and you know there's nothing you can do about it, and you just sit there seething quietly, obsessing about how much better your life would be if this particular thing was not happening? And then your quiet seething turns to fantasies about hitting a particular person over the head with, oh, say, a snow shovel? This was how my day began. (It should be noted that 6:30 is considerably earlier than I get up on a regular day, let alone a glorious snow day when I should be allowed to sleep in.)
And so I lay there, hating Chuck and missing Hippie Neighbors, who never would have undertaken this particular task--or any task, for that matter--at 6:30 in the friggin' morning. Why? Why did he have to shovel that early? Why? It's like those people who mow their lawns in the early hours on a weekend. Does no one stop to consider that they're not the only people living on their block? To top it all off, you can't say anything and piss off a neighbor, because who knows when you might need them to bring in your mail or rush you to the emergency room or something?
Eventually, I got over it, got up, made some coffee, and watched Chuck out the window. Scrape, scrape, scrape. It took him half an hour. I wondered about the other neighbors, whether he'd woken anyone else up, whether they'd been as annoyed as I was. And then I thought I might forgive Chuck if he also shoveled my part of the walkway. The walkway in front of our building comes up from the street and branches off into a Y, with one part leading to the apartments of Chuck and the Asian woman on the end of the building, and the other part leading to the apartments of yours truly and They Who Are Never Seen. Since TWANS are an older couple, and I'm just a girl*, I thought it would be nice if big strong early-rising Chuck shoveled our part of the walkway as well. But no. He shoveled just his own part of the Y, and then retreated back into his apartment. Selfish, selfish Chuck.
(As it turns out, even if Chuck hadn't woken me up at 6:30, I would have been woken up around 7:05 by Guy Who Took an Hour and Fifteen Minutes to Get His Piece of Crap Car Out of Its Parking Spot on the Street and Almost Hit My Car in the Process. More on this saga later, maybe.)
*Of course I was kidding about the "just a girl" thing, but the truth is, I don't own a snow shovel.
Showing posts with label Neighbors. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Neighbors. Show all posts
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Tuesday, July 25, 2006
Stuck in the Middle With . . . Me
I had great ambitions for this evening. Not pinned-down ambitions, but great nonetheless. One of them involved a vague plan to tear down the boxes in the basement, and then to somehow dissasemble the dead (RIP) futon frame in my bedroom and transport it, piece by piece, to said (and now cleared) basement. Alas, this plan went awry when I could not find an Allen wrench.
[Funny thing about Allen wrenches. They come with practically every "assembly required" item you purchase. I swear, I once bought a remote control that came with a tiny Allen wrench. On a normal day, you can't avoid encountering one in some junk drawer somewhere. But then when you need one . . . ]
The failure to find an Allen wrench kind of took the wind out of the sails of my ambition. Apparently, no such mishap befell Hippie Neighbors, who are particularly active this evening. Hippie Wife/Mother is out tending the garden. Hippie Husband/Father is hosing down his jeep. Hot Hippie Brother is shirtless and Building Fire to Cook Meat. (And smoking again, I see. This is a guy who, a couple of months ago, quit smoking, and after two weeks or so started lecturing me about smoking.) For those of you keeping track, here is what Hippie Neighbors have managed to build/erect/grow in our communal yards over the past few months: a full-blown garden with corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, beans, lettuce, and about a dozen herbs; a covered two-person wooden swing; a fire pit; two grills; a hammock; laundry lines; assorted chairs; assortive decorative plants; and various windchimes. Coming home never fails to confound me--it's half private suburban yard, half trailer park. It's annoying and intriguing all at the same time. Also, their seemingly endless industriousness guilts me out a little. Of course, I did spend an hour outside earlier on the porch, reading a novel. I haven't noticed any of them trying to slog their way through Middlesex.
Anyway, I guess their habits are preferable to those of the neighbors on the other side of me, They Who Are Never Seen. This is an older couple (but not that old--mid-50s, probably) who, literally, never make a peep and almost never come out of their apartment. I've seen each of them maybe three times in the six months I've lived here, and never together. And I have never seen them use their front door. In fact, they still have their winter-sealant plastic up on that door, some of which is poking out through the bottom and has been doing so, in the same exact position, since I moved in. And now, they've got these vines growing on their porch that are threatening to take over the building. These vines have already devoured two plastic chairs on TWANS's porch. (I'll try to post a picture soon--it's unbelievable.) These people also have a big pile of crap on their back porch--boards, old panes of glass, an old table, etc.)--and a broken-down car in our communal parking area. None of this stuff has moved an inch since I moved in.
So, to recap, I've got one set of neighbors who won't come out and clean up their shit, and one set who won't go in and won't stop adding more shit. And I'm just hanging out in the middle.
[Funny thing about Allen wrenches. They come with practically every "assembly required" item you purchase. I swear, I once bought a remote control that came with a tiny Allen wrench. On a normal day, you can't avoid encountering one in some junk drawer somewhere. But then when you need one . . . ]
The failure to find an Allen wrench kind of took the wind out of the sails of my ambition. Apparently, no such mishap befell Hippie Neighbors, who are particularly active this evening. Hippie Wife/Mother is out tending the garden. Hippie Husband/Father is hosing down his jeep. Hot Hippie Brother is shirtless and Building Fire to Cook Meat. (And smoking again, I see. This is a guy who, a couple of months ago, quit smoking, and after two weeks or so started lecturing me about smoking.) For those of you keeping track, here is what Hippie Neighbors have managed to build/erect/grow in our communal yards over the past few months: a full-blown garden with corn, tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, beans, lettuce, and about a dozen herbs; a covered two-person wooden swing; a fire pit; two grills; a hammock; laundry lines; assorted chairs; assortive decorative plants; and various windchimes. Coming home never fails to confound me--it's half private suburban yard, half trailer park. It's annoying and intriguing all at the same time. Also, their seemingly endless industriousness guilts me out a little. Of course, I did spend an hour outside earlier on the porch, reading a novel. I haven't noticed any of them trying to slog their way through Middlesex.
Anyway, I guess their habits are preferable to those of the neighbors on the other side of me, They Who Are Never Seen. This is an older couple (but not that old--mid-50s, probably) who, literally, never make a peep and almost never come out of their apartment. I've seen each of them maybe three times in the six months I've lived here, and never together. And I have never seen them use their front door. In fact, they still have their winter-sealant plastic up on that door, some of which is poking out through the bottom and has been doing so, in the same exact position, since I moved in. And now, they've got these vines growing on their porch that are threatening to take over the building. These vines have already devoured two plastic chairs on TWANS's porch. (I'll try to post a picture soon--it's unbelievable.) These people also have a big pile of crap on their back porch--boards, old panes of glass, an old table, etc.)--and a broken-down car in our communal parking area. None of this stuff has moved an inch since I moved in.
So, to recap, I've got one set of neighbors who won't come out and clean up their shit, and one set who won't go in and won't stop adding more shit. And I'm just hanging out in the middle.
Monday, May 22, 2006
Hippie Baby Name
Well, Hippie Baby has arrived, and I finally met him last night. And learned his full name. And that name is:
Paulo Joaquin Sequoia Hawkeye S__________.
I couldn't make that up, people.
I can't remember exactly what Hippie Dad's last name is, but it's something very Anglo-generic sounding, not quite "Smith," but close. And both Hippie Parents are very Anglo themselves, in case you were wondering. One thing's for sure--in case you all thought I was exagerrating the neighbors' hippie status, that name should convince you that I was not. That, and the cloth diapers I spied hanging from a laundry line out back yesterday.
On the plus side, the kid is cute, and I haven't heard a peep out of him yet. Either he's not a crier, or the walls are thicker than I thought. I'll take either one.
Paulo Joaquin Sequoia Hawkeye S__________.
I couldn't make that up, people.
I can't remember exactly what Hippie Dad's last name is, but it's something very Anglo-generic sounding, not quite "Smith," but close. And both Hippie Parents are very Anglo themselves, in case you were wondering. One thing's for sure--in case you all thought I was exagerrating the neighbors' hippie status, that name should convince you that I was not. That, and the cloth diapers I spied hanging from a laundry line out back yesterday.
On the plus side, the kid is cute, and I haven't heard a peep out of him yet. Either he's not a crier, or the walls are thicker than I thought. I'll take either one.
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