An ode to our upstairs neighbor

You bought a guitar

and you don't live far

from me and mine

and where we dine

it's electric I know

with an amp that can blow

your voice I can hear

and oft times I fear

the music you make

will very soon take

my mind and my smile

 and it's only a while

before I get loony

thanks to your tune-y.

can't get no satisfaction

Our problem may have started when we made the maintenance guy had to unlock our apartment late at night because SOMEONE misplaced the keys. It was me. I misplaced the keys. 

When he showed up at 11:00, half of his hair was in braids and the other half had a comb stuck in it. We had obviously interrupted, and though he was as nice as can be expected of someone who is pulled away from doing their hair at bed time, I realize now that he made a note of us and decided to get his revenge. Cause here's what happened a few days later:

This appeared on our bathroom ceiling.

Yum.

We put in a maintenance request. Six hours later the maintenance guy, now with a complete head of braids, got to work. An hour later he said, "I'll be back soon." Curious, I walked into the bathroom and found this.

Outside our front door I heard snippets of an argument. "I don't know how to fix it," someone said.

Another two hours later, Mr. Maintenance returned with a few pieces of cardboard and some packing tape. After "patching up" the enormous, gaping hole above the shower, he informed us that there was quite a bit more work to be done and he'd be in touch.

It's been a week. 

The tape isn't holding up so well. And, as it turns out, cardboard isn't a water resistant material.

I'll be surprised of we see this repaired before the end of the summer.

But potential health and safety hazards aside, this fun new bathroom decor is a welcome addition to the homey motif of our apartment alongside the diaper boxes we use for nightstands, the air mattress and the paper plates.

A hot time in the old town tonight

The last time I was in a building when the fire alarm went off was in 6th grade and I was excited because it meant missing math. I didn't feel that same excitement at 2:00 this morning when the alarm sounded because a)I don't have math class anymore, and b) we were on the fourteenth floor of a building that was maybe burning to the ground.
It's amazing how scattered thoughts become in early morning emergencies. Luckily I kept it together enough to grab the baby and wake up Stephen, but the lucidity seemed to end there as I spent the next three minutes searching for shoes, which ended up being right next to my bed. We walked into an empty hallway, and I thought maybe we had been fooled since no one else was fleeing the building. But then we entered the stairwell where quite a few fellow residences were descending in a pseudo-panic. A dog crouched in the corner, too traumatized by the noise and crowds to move until his owner grabbed him and carried him down the remaining twelve flights. The further down the stairs we went, the more people we saw, the louder the alarm sounded, and the greater the urgency became. Ivy didn't make a peep, just clung to Stephen, eyes wide, an image that was simultaneously precious and heart breaking.
We finally made it out the lobby door just as two firetrucks pulled up. When we walked outside I expected to look up at our building and see giant flames devouring the roof. Yet there was not an ash in sight. It's amazing how quickly my thoughts transformed from "GET TO SAFETY GET TO SAFETY GET TO SAFETY" to "No fire? Lame." to "I should have grabbed my phone" (the lady doth instagram too much). We sat on the curb for a while while the firefighters inspected the building. Yeah, I was annoyed to have been woken up so early by a false alarm, yeah, I wished I wasn't in my pajamas, and yeah, I was embarrassed about my hair, but there was something kind of great about seeing all our neighbors in their various thrown together outfits (Tinkerbell pajama pants with stockings and loafers was my personal favorite) and all the dogs with their tails wagging, excited to be invited to such a fun party. People smiled at Ivy, who still wasn't crying, but just sitting on my lap watching the two red trucks, the dachshunds playing and the older couple who occasionally waved at her. I hate to wax (or wane) poetic, but it was sort of beautiful and calm so early outside among strangers who sat patiently and waited until the firefighters gave the all clear and we herded back inside.
In a surprisingly orderly fashion we all shuffled into elevators and headed back to our individual apartments to resume our individual lives. Ivy played for a few minutes while we all unwound before falling into a coma sleep at 4am, happy to be fire free, sad to have missed such a good instagram opportunity, and deciding to make a plan in the event of a real fire to save three minutes worth of shoe-searching time.

escape to the land of sweets

We hadn't heard from our tap-hearing, note-leaving, cop-calling neighbor since the late night police incident weeks ago, until yesterday. I came hobbling up the stairs while carrying three Target bags and trying to wrangle Ollie (I realize in hindsight that I'm a sacred vessel and that it was very likely that I could have tripped and that for Ivy's safety I really should have made two trips. Oops) and was greeted outside my door by our tap-hearing, note-leaving-cop-calling and now nightgown-wearing neighbor who said "Excuse me, I just had back surgery. Could you please get my mail?" I had hoped to never have another encounter with this woman, but since our apartments are adjacent I knew that probably wasn't possible. I will admit that I hoped our next run-in would include some sort of apology, like "Hey sorry that I let my delusions run wild and accused you of malicious wrong doing and then turned you into the law for a crime you didn't commit." Nope. Instead she acted like we had never met. That I hadn't knocked on her door and pled innocence just weeks ago. That she hadn't previously considered me Longmont's most wanted. Maybe she doesn't remember. Maybe the surgeon operated not only on her back, but her frontal lobe as well. I pondered this possibility as I retrieved her mail, then dropped it off at her apartment lit only by the lights on her flocked Christmas tree. She sat upright in her chair, examined the single letter that I handed her, and said "Is this it?". Hard to please, that one.

I'm not crying, it's just raining on my face

Our neighbor is a man of impressive stature. If I had to guess, I'd say he's 6'5 and 300 pounds. His gnarly hair, most often in a ponytail, reaches midback and is tied with one of his many bandanas. His beard is of equal length down his front side. If he's not wearing all leather, he's wearing Harley Davidson issued denim from head to toe.
He has two dogs. Guess what kind.
Pitbulls you say? Nope. Guess again.
German Shepherds? Wrong.
Pomeranians. Two tiny, yipy pomeranians.
When the three of them are out walking, it looks a lot like this:

I really should have pursued a career as an artist.

I wonder why he chose the canine companions that he did. Was he trying to be ironic? Is he a noncomformist? Did he inherit them from his mother? Was it simply love at first puppy sight?

I've thought about asking, but so far I've failed to think of a better question than "Hey big dude, why the small dogs?" I'm afraid because maybe he's trained the pomeranians to be killer attack dogs and if I ask my tactless question, I'll meet certain death. But now I'm just stereotyping, aren't I.



won't you please? please won't you please?

Remember yesterday? The note? The tapping?
Well, I didn't bake cookies. Nor did I leave a mean note in retaliation. Instead Stephen and I went over to explain ourselves like adults.
I suspected that our neighbor, the note writer, was an older single lady. I hate that I stereotyped my own gender like that, but I was correct. As soon as she opened the door, it was apparent that something was...off. For one, right in front of the door was a fully decorated Christmas tree and a child's bicycle. And our single, older lady neighbor was crying. She said she was upset about all the noises. We weren't sure what to do, but we powered through, explained that we are not tapping on the wall, that we've heard the noise too and don't know where it's coming from but it's probably a pipe or something. Despite the hysteria, she seemed to understand, so we offered sympathies for her distraughtedness (not a word) and left a little confused but relieved that we were no longer the culprits.

So we thought...

Police knock just as aggressively as the movies portray. We were in bed, drifting to sleep, when the officer knocked loudly twice on the door. I was in polka-dot pajamas and not fit for serious, law-related interaction, so I stayed in the bedroom while Stephen handled the situation. The officer asked about the wall tapping. After ten minutes of explaining that we are not tapping on the wall, that we've heard the noise too and that we don't know where it's coming from but it's probably a pipe or something, the officer seemed convinced that we weren't trying to harrass our wall-sharer, and left his card in case we need to call.
But who knows what will happen next?
And why do I feel like a criminal? I know I'm innocent, but an officer knocking aggressively on the door has left me feeling like my record is downtown at the station. If dear neighbor calls the police again I'll probably be hauled away, handcuffed in the back of a squad car. While sitting at the prison cafeteria table, another inmate will ask, "What are you in for?" and I'll have to say, "I was framed for wall tapping." Would they send a pregnant woman to jail? Will Ivy be raised in the state penitentiary?
Also, why does the tapping not concern me more? I mean, it's reduced our neighbor to paranoia. It is a weird noise. I guess I just assume that apartments make strange noises? Or that our wall is haunted? But the poltergeists seem to be doing little haunting beyond knocking, so they're not really that much of a bother.

it's a beautiful day in the neighborhood

This morning I found a  note taped to our door. Always a good way to start the day. The note read,
Dear Residents,
I noticed that someone at your place of residence seems to enjoy tapping on the wall that connects your condo to mine. I find it repulsive and in poor taste. If you could please be more mindful of keeping the peace it would be greatly appreciated.
Thanx,
Your neighbor
We too have heard the tapping noise, and we assumed someone was remodeling. Our neighbor, however, assumed that we had nothing better to do with our time than stand around and knock on the wall. If that were the case, it would indeed be in very poor taste, and I guess repulsive, though that adjective seems a little out of place, but whatever. Since we do have jobs and homework and a life and driving our neighbor crazy isn't on our list of priorities, so we are not responsible for the tapping.
When something like this happens there are two very different sides of me that conflict. One side wants to overcompensate, take over a plate of cookies, tell her that the tapping really is unbearable and that even though it's not coming from our condo, we're still very sorry. The other side of me wants to be a total turd about it. The turd side of me wants to leave one of the following notes on her door:

So sorry about the tapping! I've been practicing my gravity-defying vertical tap dance routine. I'll switch walls.

We've wondered why you haven't responded to our morse code messages. The mission is soon. ---- ... -- .. - .... ---.

It's not tapping. We're knife throwers.

Sorry about the tapping. That's just Roy.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
-Love, Your neighbor, Edgar

We can't find our pet chimp. We think he might be in the wall. Don't worry, he's only killed once.

law is pretty clear

GESTATION UPDATE

Baby Ivy is growing like a weed. Hahahahahaha. That joke will for sure never get old.
I think she's bored. I often feel her hit the same place repeatedly, like she's banging her head against the wall in frustration, or pounding her fist and yelling "Let me out!"

How am I? I'm huge. And maybe freaking out a little bit. Fine, a lot bit. I keep having I'm Going To Be The Worst Mother Ever realizations. Like yesterday I realized we don't own a thermometer. Or a first aid kit. Or even band-aids. And I never buy milk. Or snacks. Kids need snacks, right? I'm so not ready for this. Not to mention my fear of birthing. When I read the results of the pregnancy test, I had two thoughts: 1. BABY!!!! 2. Holy Flaming Robots, I'll have to give birth. I've tried not to think too much about it since then, but we're at T minus sixteen weeks, and it's a thought that's getting harder to ignore.

I do my best to calm my fears by nesting. Nesting like a mad woman. Seriously, If a mother robin and I had a nest off, I would totally win.

Here's the latest addition to Baby Room.

Look!

Baby Ivy has a place to sleep:

Crib assembly courtesy of Stephen, quilt courtesy of Grandma Carey, wonky camera angle courtesy of me.

She also has an incredibly spastic mother.

I placed a full canister of oats on top of the freezer. I opened the freezer door. The canister fell, hit the dog food, and sprayed all across the kitchen floor. And instead of thinking, "I need a broom," I thought "I need my camera." What I really need is to realign my priorities.



a diamond to rival gold

YELLOW!

This is now the color of baby's room. I'm really proud that I (with some help from the Home Depot guy) was able to choose a color that does not evoke images of any bodily fluids or Nickelodeon cartoons (though I am a huge Spongebob fan).

And look how artsy we are:

We left the wall behind the shelves blue because we're lazy it's a fun contrast.

I care more about this room than I've ever cared about any room. I just don't want Baby to arrive, look around and say, "Really guys? You couldn't put a little more effort into my surroundings?" I really want her to like us.

Ollie was confused and annoyed that we wouldn't let him help us paint. I hate to discriminate, but he doesn't have opposable thumbs.

all my friends were vampires

Yesterday we received roughly 1/5 of our deposit from the Provo apartment management company with the following letter:

"Additional cleaning at new residents request: kitchen cupboards, drwares (their spelling, not mine), sink, floor, behind appliances, oven, shower, tub, sink, medicine cabinet, etc 5 hours at $35 an hour. Total charge against refund: $426.53
Amount of Refund: $73.47"

This is outrageous for many reasons, since we passed our cleaning check, were constantly told how clean our apartment was, scrubbed the sink raw, blah blah blah. But what really gets my goat is that I spent five years and thousands of dollars on a college degree when it turns out that I could be making $35 an hour cleaning medicine cabinets. That's nearly double my current earnings. EDUCATION FAIL.