I fought the law and the law was pretty reasonable

"This is not what I was expecting," said one of policemen standing in my apartment.

What he was expecting was a meth lab. Or a drum set. Or fifteen rhinoceroses. Or anything, anything at all, that might make sufficient noise to bother a neighbor enough to call the police.

What the two fully uniformed, armed officers found was me, Ivy and Ollie going about our day.

So far that day had included breakfast, my working, and Ivy playing with some left over birthday balloons, one of which popped. The incident was traumatic for two minutes. Ivy cried. Ollie barked. We all settled down over some graham crackers and Finding Nemo.

But I guess our neighbor, Edith, was far more shook up about the loud, singular noise than we were, decided to call 911, and send the aforementioned authorities to our door.

So there we stood. Me, holding back tears, the officers, looking around in confusion, one of them patting Ollie's head.

I explained that this had happened before. I explained that the Home Owners' Association ignores Edith's weekly letters of complaint about us. I explained that the wall we share with Edith is next to the kitchen and she can probably hear our cupboards open, and our dishwasher run and our knives chop. I explained that we'll be moving in three months. 

The two men listened. They nodded their heads sympathetically. They said that no one should expect a two year old to be silent and that hearing your neighbors is just a part of apartment living. They suggested I call city mediation, or maybe just endure for the next three months because ultimately it's probably just not worth the hassle.

I thanked them and they left. Then I heard them knock on Edith's door. I tried to listen to their conversation for a minute (yes, our walls are that thin), but Ivy had a pediatrician appointment so we had to leave. 

I assume the police told Edith that a toddler and a dog live next door. I assume they mentioned the city mediation. I assume they reminded her that hearing neighbors is just a part of apartment living. I know for sure they told her that we'd be moving soon.

I know this because later that day while I was checking the mail a woman I have never met before said to me, "Hey, I heard you're moving." 

Here's the thing about where we live: It's lovely. We have a great two bedroom apartment in a nice neighborhood near walking trails and two parks. We pay very little rent for the amount of space we have, and the buildings are fairly new and appliances rarely break. But, our neighbors are primarily single, older women, which is fine, except we definitely don't fit in. The majority of these ladies are nice, and say hello when our paths cross, but no one knows our names, no one knows our story, and no one, until a few days ago, knew we were moving. Now, however, everyone knows, which leads me to believe that we've been a subject of discussion for some time now.

Our history with Edith is long and sordid. You can read about it here and here and here and here and here.  It seems that from that very first note three years ago, she's been besmirching our reputation within community. And since bird of a feather flock together, we never had a fighting chance in winning over the geriatric residents.

The day after my run-in with the fuzz, I saw Edith outside in her bathroom headed toward the building next to ours. She was probably on her way to spread the good news about the annoying balloon-popping family's soon departure. I wondered if I should follow her and offer some correct information to those she might be communicating with. Try and reveal her lies. Win them over with some baked goods, perhaps. 

But in a few more months Edith will have new neighbors to hate and we will soon be forgotten, nuisances of the past. So whatever.

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.

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.

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.

zoom zoom zoom

A neighbor boy who can't be more than five years old came zooming toward us on his bike. He stopped abruptly and asked, "Can I pet your dog?"
After a few seconds of being attacked with Ollie kisses, neighbor boy said,
"My dog has way worse breath because she eats our other dog's poop and her own poop."

So, I guess we've got that going for us.