What do you do when...

...you're reading bedtime stories to your kid, and all of a sudden, you hear the people upstairs having sex?!

I didn't see that one coming...

Cat.

So the other night, I was working late on the computer, which is just around the corner from the hall closet and the front door. I heard a funny noise in the hallway outside the apartment door. I heard it a few times, and I looked out the peephole, but there was no one there.

I resumed typing.

After a while, I heard a sort of scratching noise, the kind our cats make when they are trying to get into / out of the closet. I peeked around the corner to the closet door, but neither cat was there. Back to typing.

More scratching noises. I got up and opened the closet door, expecting one of the cats to come out, but there was no one in the closet, either.

I realized that the scratching sound was coming from the hallway, just like the earlier noises. And then I heard a "meow." I opened the door just a crack to peek out, and a brown, furry head appeared, pushing the door with such force that for a moment I thought a human hand had appeared to force the door open.

There was a cat in the hallway. A beautiful, cuddly, friendly, purring cat. And we couldn't take it inside, as our two cats have not been getting their feline leukemia vaccinations (on the advice of our vet, who feels they don't need them since they never interact with other animals).

The cat clearly wanted in. Being a little skittish around animals I don't know (even cuddly, friendly ones), I woke up Mr. Plainsfeminist to help me check the cat's collar and figure out what to do. At this point, it was a little past midnight, so there would be no calling the Humane Society or anything like that. Plus, we were pretty sure that the cat lived somewhere in our building and perhaps had snuck out of its apartment when the door was open and no one was looking. To get into our building, you have to pass through the outside door into a foyer and then proceed through a second, locked door. It's possible that someone had taken pity on a poor cat stuck outside in subzero weather and let it into the building, but unlikely.

The collar had a phone number on it, which I called (even at the late hour). If it had been my cat, I would have wanted to know where it is. I probably would still have been awake, worrying about the cat. But also, since we weren't able to take the cat in, I was concerned that someone might let it out of the building (inadvertently or just meanly) before we found the owner. The phone rang and rang, and I left a message with my number; then, we put out some water for the cat and went to bed.

In the morning, there was no sign of the cat. I tried calling the owner again, but the phone just rang and rang. I never received a phone call back, not to say "thanks for looking out for my cat" or even "I did get my cat back - didn't want you to worry." So I guess we can assume that the cat got back to its home. I hope so. I'm still tempted to call the number again and try to find out.

Of course, one time a couple of years ago we found a toddler wandering around in the building and had to knock on doors to find out who she belonged to. Those people have since moved - they were the evil downstairs smoking neighbors - so I can't blame this one on them.

Oh My GOD, Downstairs Man, Stop! STOP!!!

(I wrote this last night.)

I was wrong about Downstairs Neighbors playing music because of the crying baby. What those horrible loud noises are - I just figured out - are Downstairs Man, playing his electric bass.

Loudly. Because boys with electric guitars of any kind seem to think they are Eddie Fucking Van Halen. And that everyone else really needs to hear their genius. The genious downstairs is playing "whamp whamp whamp whamp" - pause - "whamp whamp whamp whamp." Which even I could play on a bass guitar, and I'm lousy at laying down a bass line (to the extent that no one who knows me would use my name and "laying down a bass line" in the same sentence).

At all hours of the night. See, I was very sympathetic when I thought that Downstairs Neighbors were desperately trying to get their littlest one to sleep or at least to drown out the sounds of the littlest one so that they did not go insane. I am less sympathetic when I realize that it is a testosterone rush that is responsible for my accidental chair massage (seriously, that's how bad it is. My butt is vibrating, and I feel somewhat violated.).

Of course, it is entirely possible that it is Downstairs Woman who is responsible for this hideous state of affairs, but somehow, I don't think it is she. I've met both of them, and Downstairs Man is the one who seemed clueless enough to believe that the rest of the building might not mind hearing his seismic fumblings.

Asshat.

Downstairs Neighbors, Again

So, lately, I've noticed a pattern with Downstairs Neighbors. Every evening - EVERY evening - at around eightish, I feel a strong vibration and hear a sort of booming sound, and I think to myself, "hmm, could that possibly be thunder?" (I really do. You'd think by now I'd be able to skip this part.) I quickly realize that, no, it is not thunder; it is merely Downstairs Neighbors blasting some sort of music (I think it's either metal or '70s rock - I'll have to ask). Apparently their speakers must be right up under their ceiling because the entire floor of my apartment conducts the bass.

When this first started a couple of weeks ago, I thought perhaps I should say something. "But, no," I thought, "they'll quickly realize that their music is way too damn loud and turn it down."

HA.

The mistake I made was doing nothing. Now, way too damn loud music is a matter of course for our evenings. If I were to be honest, though, the noise and vibrations don't really bother me all that much. If I lived above a club, for example, I would probably think, "hey, it's time to head downstairs for the party," or else, "wow, it's amazing how quiet it is, considering." But as this is definitely not a club, I'm offended by the fact that they either have no clue how to behave in an apartment building or else they are aware that their music is way too damn loud for eleven at night and that it disturbs the rest of us and yet they just play it anyway.

And also, their kids are loud. I'm hardly one to talk - I'm sure there have been many times when our neighbors have been ready to come after us with pitchforks and torches. But every night at one am, their baby wakes up and starts squalling (and every night, much like the thunder, I hear the sound and wonder for a moment if someone's cat is outside wailing to get back in). And the older kid makes weird giggling crying sounds that are very loud and ambiguous.

And on top of all of this, Downstairs Neighbors are prone to making huge, crashing, thudding sounds between midnight and two am. I can't figure out what could possibly make such noise other than pieces of furniture being knocked over, but I suspect it is just them jumping around for some reason that only they and God know and understand. Why they have to do it so late at night is even further beyond me.

Combined, these sounds are actually a little freaky, and while I don't really think that anyone is being hurt, I usually have at least a couple of moments each week during which I consider this possiblity and stand out in the hall for a while to make sure I'm wrong. So it's a bit stressful.

Last night, I once again considered knocking on their door, or even leaving a note, and asking them to keep it down. But you know how it is in apartment buildings: you try really, really hard to get along because you know how much you'd hate it if someone else came to complain to you. And also, you don't want to make enemies where you live. So lots of times, you try to grin and bear it, or else you try not to be home all that much.

I did, however, call the management company about the smoke, and someone is coming over today to attempt to hermetically seal us in. I'll keep you posted.

The Problem with Neighbors

Living in an apartment building is great. I like not having to worry about shoveling the walks or raking leaves or any of the maintenance that comes with owning a house. But lately, I've been having a real problem with my Downstairs Neighbors.

They smoke. I'm a former smoker, so I don't have an issue with this. I am not someone who feels that everyone in the world must stop smoking so that I don't have to smell their cigarette smoke. I am actually very tolerant of smoky environments. But their smoke has a way of getting into my apartment, and I do not want smoke in my home.

Last fall, when they moved in, I quickly found that if I left any of our windows open at any time of the day and most any time of the night, the smoke from their patio, where they'd leave their cigarettes burning in a big bucket, would rise and float inside our apartment. After a while of this, it began to smell like *we* were smoking. So, I trotted downstairs to have a friendly chat with my Downstairs Neighbors. The woman I spoke with was cordial and tried to be accommodating; she agreed to move the bucket o' cigs away from directly under my window, and that did, indeed help.

(Side note: I noticed that she was very visibly pregnant, obviously near her delivery date. She told me that she didn't want to smoke in the house. So I had some interesting conversations in my head about the contradictions inherent in all of that.)

But then it got cold, and my Downstairs Neighbors apparently started smoking indoors. Suddenly, even with my windows closed, my apartment began to smell like cigarette smoke all the time. I finally figured out that the smoke was getting in through the bathroom fan, which is set into a ventilating system in the wall that is connected to the apartments above and below me. So, I began turning the fan on at regular intervals, which seemed to help.

After a while, even that wasn't enough to keep the smell away. So, for the last couple of weeks, I've left the fan on continuously. Usually, this keeps the smoke away. There are some days, however, when even that does not keep the smoke smell out of the bathroom. Further, leaving the fan running continuously has had the side effect of making the apartment even more dry than usual, despite our humidifier.

Then, as I posted the other day, my kid got croup. That meant that he desperately needed a moist, humid environment. It also meant that he couldn't be exposed to cigarette smoke. Hmmm. I took a rag and stuffed it into the vent in the bathroom, plugging up any opening through which smoke could come. Then, I taped a plastic bag over the vent. Finally, for good measure, I kept the bathroom door shut.

That seemed to work well. I was able to keep the kid's room sufficiently humid, and the house (and bathroom) were free of smoke.

Until a couple of days ago, when the kid woke up at 4am with a coughing fit, and I went into the bathroom to start the shower in order to create a steam room for him. When I opened the door, I smelled smoke. I couldn't bring him in there to breathe steam because he'd also be breathing smoke. I had to rip out the rag and plastic bag and run the fan all night to get the smell out.

The final straw: The other day, I opened the dryer to pull out some blankets. Like the bathroom fans, the dryers in our building all vent into a common space. So, now my blankets smell, albeit faintly, of cigarette smoke.

A pox on you, Downstairs Neighbors, who don't like to smoke in your own apartment, but who nevertheless smoke in mine.

(By the way - in case you were wondering: the kid is fine. He seems to be over the croup, thank god.)