Martin's Musings

Generally, I’m a guy who avoids confrontation.

I’d rather just live with an unpleasant situation than confront the person who is making it unpleasant for me.

No, actually, what I usually do is be all passive-aggressive about it, and complain, bitch, and moan — often for the sake of a laugh — even though that does no good in terms of helping the situation.

It’s what happened in my old apartment building, with my violin- and flute-playing neighbors, and for a whille, it was happening with my current upstairs neighbor, who would not only never remove her shoes when she walked around her apartment, but had a proclivity to clean her apartment late at night, and worse, to vacuum her floors at even later hours. Continue reading →

I spent a good chunk of the last day of my 35th year doing what any other good straight male would do: I changed over my closet from winter to summer. (Yes, that was sarcasm.) I kinda had to do this, now that the temperatures have gotten consistently warmer and all. An unfortunate truth about my condo is that my closets are too small to keep all my clothes upstairs. But the other truth is that I’m a bit of a pack rat (as has been well documented on this blog), so every now and then it’s good for me to go through my stuff, see what I’ve been hanging on to for way too long, and just get rid of anything I haven’t worn or that’s weathered and old. You’d be surprised at how many shirts and sweaters I just never wore all winter, despite thinking I would. Or how many of the same color shirts I owned. And some things I just wore too often and needed to get rid of them. And, I’ve been buying some new clothes lately that I needed to make room for.

I guess deep down, I wanted to do this today because I thought there was something metaphorical about cleaning up and renewing myself, and purging some old and unwanted belongings, the day before I turn another year older. And what the hell — yes, I also thought I’d get a blog post out of it (and given how few and far between they’ve been lately, that was a bonus).

Cliches and cheesiness aside, it felt good to do this. Not only did I get rid of a bunch of shirts, tshirts, and sweaters, but I also cleaned my apartment in the process and got in some exercise (walking a heavy tub up and down the stairs to and from my storage unit wasn’t easy). And, another bonus, I have a nice donation to make to an organization like Big Brothers Big Sisters.

So now I’m sitting here in a cleaner apartment, with less than I had at the start of the weekend, and I’m feeling good about waking up in the morning.

It usually starts after 10pm. That’s when my upstairs neighbor — we’ll call her LC — starts making noise. You can almost set your watch to it. Night after night, it’s like she’s sat quietly in one place, and then, just when my evening is starting to wind down, she gets up and just wanders around the apartment. Sometimes she decides to rearrange the furniture. Sometimes she drops things. And sometimes she decides to vacuum, though she often saves that task until Sunday night. She has a very heavy walk. Oh, and did I mention she wears shoes (they sound like heels) when she’s doing all this?

I must be fated to have bad luck with my neighbors. Maybe I was a bad neighbor in a former life, I don’t really know. But what I do know is that for the past, oh, three years, whether it was the piano-, the flute-, or the violin-playing back at 110, or my current inconsiderate neighbor upstairs, I’ve had some real tests of my patience lately.

Unlike the “musicians” at 110, I’ve actually said something to LC about the noise. For example, there was that one night a year ago when I came home from work late (i.e.: around 10pm) and heard some particularly loud, beat-heavy music playing upstairs. I knocked on her door. No response. I buzzed her from the front door. No response. I slipped a note under her door asking that she not play her music that loudly so late at night. Finally, after 11pm, and another round of knocking and buzzing, she got the message and turned it down. Now she prefers to taunt me with her late-night walking around and cleaning.

Oh, and there was also the time when her toilet had a leak and it was dripping into my bathroom. I was very civil with her and thankful for her quick (though cold and half-hearted) response. So yeah, it’s not like we haven’t ever been in touch.

Don’t get me wrong: I realize that living in a condo (or any other kind of multi-unit) building means I’m going to hear noise from other residents, especially when I live on a lower-level floor. I’m just saying that I seem to have gotten the short end of the stick here. When I come home, one of the first things I do is remove my shoes — not just for comfort and cleanliness, but also because … well, I guess those are the only reasons I do it (after all, I don’t have anyone living below me). And I don’t turn the volume on my TV up as loud as I’d like it because I know that’s rude. So why does LC not show the same consideration? I mean, even my banjo-playing neighbor has asked me if he is playing too loudly (I told him not really) and has adjusted so as not to disturb me.

I know I’m probably not a perfect neighbor, but I’m sure I’m more patient than most. And I’m also friendly; whenever I see LC in the hallway, I say hello to her — despite my frustrations. Maybe eventually she’ll think about her neighbor and will be a little bit nicer to me.

A year ago today I became a condo-owner. It’s amazing how fast time flies. I wish I had some grand statement to make about the anniversary, but I don’t. It’s good to own the place, but to be honest, it doesn’t feel all that different since I have a management company to deal with the pesky details of building maintenance. And my condo was pretty much brand new, so I haven’t had to deal with any big issues of repair like some other new owners might. Still, a year later, it’s nice to not have to deal with a rent increase or the debate about whether or not to move. And sure, I don’t feel like I’ve fully moved into my condo — there’s still some decorating I want to do — but it’s home. And it’s mine. And today, that feels pretty darned good.