Apr
01

A Deluxe Apartment in the Sky.

Simone seems to be doing well, and I have an hour to myself, so I feel it is time to tell you a tale of latent homosexuality, alcohol abuse, and truly hideous red and white tile—also known as the story of how we came to be moving at the end of this month.
Yes, we are moving. Again. For the third time in two years. You may remember my previous moves, in which case you are probably asking yourself one of three questions:
1. What is wrong with these people?
2. Is her antidepressant prescription up to date?
3. No, really—what is wrong with these people?

The answers are 1. I don’t know, god help me; 2. Thankfully, yes; and 3. This is the last time we move until we buy a house, and if I have to sit on a toilet for two years to ensure that, well, so be it. Those of you who have not been reading as long may be wondering “Has Alexa started packing?” or “Does Alexa have time to pack?” and the answer to both of those is “No,” followed by a hollow laugh.
(Those of you who asked yourself no questions, instead making a snide comment about gauchos: VERY GODDAMN FUNNY).

Anyway. Last fall we got new upstairs neighbors. Almost immediately, the noise began—just after bar close, around 2:30 in the morning, mostly in the form of incredible thumps and crashes that shook our ceiling and were often accompanied by raucous laughter. This went on every weekend for some time, and around Christmas it started to unhinge my poor husband. I wasn’t delighted by it either, but as mentioned before, confrontation is not my strong suit, and it seemed easier to put up with being occasionally startled awake. I tried to see the bright side: attempting to figure out what on earth they were doing up there was a diverting puzzle that kept me occupied during many a nocturnal bathroom trip.

The obvious explanation was cow tipping. The tenants were two young men from Wisconsin in their early to mid twenties, boys who appeared unaware that they had left the perpetual keg party of college and entered the real world. Or perhaps they were confusing the real world with the television show of the same name. Anyway, my cow tipping theory, though it explained the window-rattling WHUMPs, was ultimately disproven when we found out what was really going on: drunk, shirtless wrestling.

I can’t remember exactly when we made this discovery, but it was after several calls to the building manager and multiple visits by the police. Our neighbors’ continued devotion to the sport baffled me. A few days after I was released from the hospital, I stormed upstairs at three a.m., my dislike of conflict temporarily overcome by roiling post-partum hormones and the fact that Scott’s endless hand-wringing about our living situation was getting on my very last nerve. One of the ruffians, Clompy—so named because he wears the world’s loudest cowboy boots—answered the door, weaving. As he slurred his apology, I looked past him to where his roommate sat, sans shirt, on a piece of furniture that had been pushed against the wall. Our building is a small, quiet one, its 12 apartments populated primarily by bookish types and professionals. These hoodlums had been warned, repeatedly, that further complaints would result in eviction, and yet nothing—not Scott, not the law, not my barrage of subliminal Brokeback jokes—could induce them to quit writhing intoxicated before a crowd of braying friends.

Eventually the inevitable happened. They were booted, and no-doubt fearing a repeat of my husband’s wrathful 2 a.m. phone calls with another tenant, the building’s owner offered us their top-floor apartment. Upon touring it, however, I declined. Our current apartment is Fancy. The apartment above has the same footprint and identical living/dining/bed rooms, but the kitchen and bath were horrifying, with outdated cabinetry, bizarre layouts, and the most revolting red-and-white-checkered linoleum I have ever seen. Not that I am a red-and-white-checkered linoleum connoisseur or anything, but trust me: it was unlivable. However when I explained this to the owner, he offered to completely renovate the wrasslers’ apartment, tearing up the linoleum, refinishing the hardwood floors, and installing all new granite countertops, bathroom tile, cabinetry, sinks, and toilet.

I have always wanted to have something renovated, and being able to do so without paying any of the money, doing any of the work, or absorbing any of the inconvenience of having my home ripped asunder was too great an enticement to resist. Besides, after the winter I have had, there is something appealing about a fresh start. A nice archaeologist couple has rented our apartment for May 1st, and we move the last week of April.
April being, of course, the month we are in now.

Is deciding to move just before my daughter comes home from the hospital (insert paranoid genuflection here) a form of postpartum psychosis, do you think? Or am I psychotic LIKE A FOX?

By Alexa | Posted in Ceci N'est Pas Une Ecrivaine |