OK, this is getting ridiculous.
Alarm Clock Guy (a.k.a. guy in the apartment above me) is out of control. I've gotten used to his stomping around first thing in the morning (almost) and barely even wake up anymore when it happens. But last night was totally insane.
4:00 a.m.: The pacing starts. And not just back and forth, back and forth, in one room. No. This was one end of the apartment to the other, heavy footsteps, obviously ruminating over something very troubling and anger-inducing.
4:30 a.m.: ACG settles down a bit. Now it's just creaking, but still one end of the apartment to the other. I'm able to doze when he heads to the living room, which seems to be directly above our living room.
5:00 a.m.: Creaking stops. Aaaah. Sleep....
5:30 a.m.: The usual! He flops out of bed again (BOOM, BOOM!) then walks to the bathroom. (step, creak, step creak, step creak, squeak (that's the door)). How could he possibly be getting up now? He just went to bed half an hour ago!
On the plus side, ACG's antics make my snoring seem like a minor inconvenience. We have GOT to get our own place...somewhere where all the floors belong to us, and if the kids (the kids we might or might not ever have, depending on if we decide we're not happy without rapidly-filling diapers, binkies, and upholstery encrusted with pulverized Cheerios) start pounding around up there, I can scream up the steps, "I know you don't want me to come up there!" and then they'll knock it off. Maybe.
Well, until next time. I'm going to go ear-plug shopping.
Thursday, December 09, 2004
Friday, November 19, 2004
Alarm Clock Guy
I am dreading waking up tomorrow morning.
Not because it's early. (I've gotten used to that part.)
Not because it's Saturday and no self-respecting lazy person wakes up before they're gosh-darned good and ready on Saturday.
And finally, not because there's anything I have to do on Saturday, besides shop for groceries and pretend to obsess about cleaning the house and/or bathrooms, depending on whether there's enough of that cling-to-the-underside-of-the-bowl blue cleanser stuff to buy me valuable time sitting on the couch, watching DVDs while thinking to myself, "Just a few more minutes till that stuff has a chance to kill all the germs lurking under that rim."
No, the reason I dread waking up tomorrow morning is that I know I will be up too early.
This is because of Alarm Clock Guy.
My husband and I live on the ground floor of a three-floor apartment complex. The guy above us is a person we have never actually personally met, but I can honestly say that I hate this person's guts. Every morning (even on Sunday, for those of you who are thinking I'm exaggerating), we are subjected to a ceiling-rattling ritual in which, from the sound of things up there, this guy heaves himself out of bed and jumps to the floor as hard as he can, then proceeds to juggle bowling balls (badly) on his way to the bathroom. I'm seriously not kidding here. Sometimes our ceiling fan actually starts making a different noise after he rises.
Alarm Clock Guy would be a godsend if he got up exactly two and a half hours later than he normally awakens. Unfortunately for us, he is what the proverbial proverb-writers had in mind when they came up with that whole "early bird" thing.
I'd better get to bed...the later I fall asleep, the more susceptible I am to "ceiling rage." More tomorrow, especially if I fall victim to the temptation to play The Sims in the morning before grocery shopping. That always makes me extra sensitive to the idiotic things human beings, including myself, do.... :)
Not because it's early. (I've gotten used to that part.)
Not because it's Saturday and no self-respecting lazy person wakes up before they're gosh-darned good and ready on Saturday.
And finally, not because there's anything I have to do on Saturday, besides shop for groceries and pretend to obsess about cleaning the house and/or bathrooms, depending on whether there's enough of that cling-to-the-underside-of-the-bowl blue cleanser stuff to buy me valuable time sitting on the couch, watching DVDs while thinking to myself, "Just a few more minutes till that stuff has a chance to kill all the germs lurking under that rim."
No, the reason I dread waking up tomorrow morning is that I know I will be up too early.
This is because of Alarm Clock Guy.
My husband and I live on the ground floor of a three-floor apartment complex. The guy above us is a person we have never actually personally met, but I can honestly say that I hate this person's guts. Every morning (even on Sunday, for those of you who are thinking I'm exaggerating), we are subjected to a ceiling-rattling ritual in which, from the sound of things up there, this guy heaves himself out of bed and jumps to the floor as hard as he can, then proceeds to juggle bowling balls (badly) on his way to the bathroom. I'm seriously not kidding here. Sometimes our ceiling fan actually starts making a different noise after he rises.
Alarm Clock Guy would be a godsend if he got up exactly two and a half hours later than he normally awakens. Unfortunately for us, he is what the proverbial proverb-writers had in mind when they came up with that whole "early bird" thing.
I'd better get to bed...the later I fall asleep, the more susceptible I am to "ceiling rage." More tomorrow, especially if I fall victim to the temptation to play The Sims in the morning before grocery shopping. That always makes me extra sensitive to the idiotic things human beings, including myself, do.... :)
Thursday, November 11, 2004
Good Hair, Bad Hair
Miami Herald columnist Dave Barry once described his hair using the adjective "free-range."
I can relate.
This hair thing is spiraling out of control, rapidly becoming a shine-serum-coated juggernaut that's draining my time and my savings account. It all started when my husband was vacuuming one day, and the vacuum cleaner was refusing to pick up even the smallest pieces of debris—fish flakes, cockatiel feathers, human toenail shards, that kind of thing. (We're an eclectic little family/school/flock, depending on your perspective as a species.) Anyway, an investigation of the contents of the vacuum bag showed us two things: 1) our cockatiel eats very few of the sunflower seeds that are included in large quantities in the more expensive bird food; and 2) my hair. A lot of my hair. There was enough in the bag to populate a whole new head. Then he flipped the vacuum over and inspected the brushes and other moving parts...and discovered they, too, were clogged with hair.
At the time, I had very long, thick hair, that apparently fell out a rate equal to the rate of re-growth, since with the amount of hair in that vacuum cleaner, it should have been way easier to pull a brush through what was left. Shopping for barrettes and cute clips and scrunchies that would hold it all without exploding into plastic shrapnel was a challenge. Something had to change.
"You should get your hair cut," my husband said.
I did. Not right away, and not because he said so. (Well, kind of because he said so.) Short, but not too short. And then my stylist said, "You could use some highlights..."
And so the obsession began.
I can relate.
This hair thing is spiraling out of control, rapidly becoming a shine-serum-coated juggernaut that's draining my time and my savings account. It all started when my husband was vacuuming one day, and the vacuum cleaner was refusing to pick up even the smallest pieces of debris—fish flakes, cockatiel feathers, human toenail shards, that kind of thing. (We're an eclectic little family/school/flock, depending on your perspective as a species.) Anyway, an investigation of the contents of the vacuum bag showed us two things: 1) our cockatiel eats very few of the sunflower seeds that are included in large quantities in the more expensive bird food; and 2) my hair. A lot of my hair. There was enough in the bag to populate a whole new head. Then he flipped the vacuum over and inspected the brushes and other moving parts...and discovered they, too, were clogged with hair.
At the time, I had very long, thick hair, that apparently fell out a rate equal to the rate of re-growth, since with the amount of hair in that vacuum cleaner, it should have been way easier to pull a brush through what was left. Shopping for barrettes and cute clips and scrunchies that would hold it all without exploding into plastic shrapnel was a challenge. Something had to change.
"You should get your hair cut," my husband said.
I did. Not right away, and not because he said so. (Well, kind of because he said so.) Short, but not too short. And then my stylist said, "You could use some highlights..."
And so the obsession began.
Friday, November 05, 2004
The First Post
As the title of this blog indicates, my plan is to use this space to vent a little about some of the stupidity in my world. (I promise not to go on and on about Survivor, even though I was yelling at the TV last night!) The title is also an homage to the ill-fated character Mr. Heckles on Friends, whose "Big Book of Grievances" was my inspiration.
The most obvious subject for my first gripe-fest would be:
WEDDINGS.
Not "getting married," but having a wedding. It happened two months ago, but I'm still having nightmares. Not that the ceremony and reception didn't go smoothly (they were perfect, in fact). The planning process, on the other hand, was...well, not all fun. Some parts even approached horrifying. From the time we got engaged to the actual wedding, a year elapsed, and at 11:30 PM on the night before the wedding, my mom and I were frantically winding tulle around columns in the hall we'd rented.
But anyway, this subject is kind of obvious, and many people have written many helpful books on the subject. I highly recommend the book Bridal Bargains for any female person who's thinking about getting married, even if she has not technically chosen a groom yet.
So...what has annoyed me today. Let me think. Hmmm...another obvious one, but: TRAINS.
My new husband is a toy train freak. Actually, his whole family loves trains. He is currently using one entire bedroom of his mom's apartment to construct this giant toy train layout. If it's not done by Christmas, to hear him tell it, then grave consequences will ensue. I know this because last year, he stayed up for at least 48 hours straight finishing Christmas Train Extravaganza 2003. Children and adults from all over the building came over and stood near it while he ran the trains. So this is important. Tradition. If he doesn't finish it, his whole family will probably think that I am trying to stop him from liking trains, and before they know it I'll have him doing things like eating sushi and selling his motorcycle so we can buy attractive, matching furniture. But I actually have nothing against the train thing. In fact, in some ways it is fascinating. We go to this train show in Chicago periodically, and it's oddly interesting to peruse all the tiny houses, vehicles, and naked O-scale human figurines (yes, they DO make these...haven't figured out why). What I do have a problem with is REAL trains.
I have this friend in Florida who LOVES trains—real ones. He's the only human being I've ever met who is happy when his simple trip to the mini mart is interrupted by flashing lights and train gates. He'll drive great distances to exotic places like Waycross, Georgia, to view trains. And take notes. But anyway, he's not the annoying thing. The annoying thing is the reason that he thinks my town is his idea of heaven. He loves visiting me because we have a lot of trains. Constantly.
Yesterday, for example, I left for the office 10 minutes before work. Didn't get there till 5 after 9, even though it's only a two-mile commute. A train was coming through town (slowly), and I had to sit there. Since it's not a big town, the train temporarily divides it in half like a wall. No one goes anywhere. So you can either accept your fate and sit there, or you can race to the next intersection and try to shoot across before those gates start flashing and descending. (Obligatory public service message: NEVER drive around the gates. This is illegal and dangerous.)
So the point is, sometimes the earlier I leave for work, the later I get there. How irritating.
Reading this over, I'm struck by the lameness of this rant. Maybe by tomorrow I'll have a better subject. (If not, I'm stuck with either the election or Rory from Survivor.)
The most obvious subject for my first gripe-fest would be:
WEDDINGS.
Not "getting married," but having a wedding. It happened two months ago, but I'm still having nightmares. Not that the ceremony and reception didn't go smoothly (they were perfect, in fact). The planning process, on the other hand, was...well, not all fun. Some parts even approached horrifying. From the time we got engaged to the actual wedding, a year elapsed, and at 11:30 PM on the night before the wedding, my mom and I were frantically winding tulle around columns in the hall we'd rented.
But anyway, this subject is kind of obvious, and many people have written many helpful books on the subject. I highly recommend the book Bridal Bargains for any female person who's thinking about getting married, even if she has not technically chosen a groom yet.
So...what has annoyed me today. Let me think. Hmmm...another obvious one, but: TRAINS.
My new husband is a toy train freak. Actually, his whole family loves trains. He is currently using one entire bedroom of his mom's apartment to construct this giant toy train layout. If it's not done by Christmas, to hear him tell it, then grave consequences will ensue. I know this because last year, he stayed up for at least 48 hours straight finishing Christmas Train Extravaganza 2003. Children and adults from all over the building came over and stood near it while he ran the trains. So this is important. Tradition. If he doesn't finish it, his whole family will probably think that I am trying to stop him from liking trains, and before they know it I'll have him doing things like eating sushi and selling his motorcycle so we can buy attractive, matching furniture. But I actually have nothing against the train thing. In fact, in some ways it is fascinating. We go to this train show in Chicago periodically, and it's oddly interesting to peruse all the tiny houses, vehicles, and naked O-scale human figurines (yes, they DO make these...haven't figured out why). What I do have a problem with is REAL trains.
I have this friend in Florida who LOVES trains—real ones. He's the only human being I've ever met who is happy when his simple trip to the mini mart is interrupted by flashing lights and train gates. He'll drive great distances to exotic places like Waycross, Georgia, to view trains. And take notes. But anyway, he's not the annoying thing. The annoying thing is the reason that he thinks my town is his idea of heaven. He loves visiting me because we have a lot of trains. Constantly.
Yesterday, for example, I left for the office 10 minutes before work. Didn't get there till 5 after 9, even though it's only a two-mile commute. A train was coming through town (slowly), and I had to sit there. Since it's not a big town, the train temporarily divides it in half like a wall. No one goes anywhere. So you can either accept your fate and sit there, or you can race to the next intersection and try to shoot across before those gates start flashing and descending. (Obligatory public service message: NEVER drive around the gates. This is illegal and dangerous.)
So the point is, sometimes the earlier I leave for work, the later I get there. How irritating.
Reading this over, I'm struck by the lameness of this rant. Maybe by tomorrow I'll have a better subject. (If not, I'm stuck with either the election or Rory from Survivor.)
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