Tenth Musee

So can we talk about my neighbors some more?  It seems no matter where I go, I end up with at least one subpar neighbor.  I had to ask mikey if maybe it was me — perhaps I’m doing something that makes the neighbors jerky, or maybe I have unrealistic expectations, but he insists it’s them.

Remember the Tacky Water Bottle people from across the hall?  Well, last Friday, I received a notice on my door from the apartment management, letting me know I’m in violation of their “common areas” policies with my water bottles.  While I wasn’t thrilled to hear this — I mean, where else are you supposed to keep them in an apartment? — if that’s their policy and I’m in violation, fine. I’ll figure something out.

So I called the office to let them know I was going to comply and ask for suggestions on where I might keep them, since it’s a month’s worth of water.  I was connected with the manager, who informed me that I was issued the violation primarily because there were “several complaints” about my water bottles “blowing over and rolling down the hallways very noisily” and neighbors were having to “round them up” for me.

I like to consider myself a lady, but I have to quote my father here and cry, “Horseshit!”  Total, utter nonsense.  And I told her so. I said, “I’m happy to comply with your policies if that is the case. It’s not the most convenient thing, but if that’s your rule, that’s how it goes.  However, I can tell you with about 99.9% accuracy that those ‘reports’ are hogwash. I am home all day, every day and my desk is right on the other side of the ice cube glass window/wall from those bottles.  I sit right there.  If there were anything blowing anywhere, especially noisily, I would have heard it. If there were someone out there rounding up my anything, I would have seen them.  I know you can’t tell me who it is, nor do I really want you to, but if it’s the neighbors across the hall, I have an idea of what this is about. “  Then I briefly recapped the interaction on the 4th of July.

She told me I can store the bottles on my patio and I, as obviously retaliatory as it was, informed the management that “if we’re going to go there”, then the neighbors across the hall aren’t exactly angels, rummaging around in their storage unit (in the common area of the hallway) loudly at 1am every night. I also mentioned the constant stream people going in and out of their apartment loudly (which is directly across from the ‘ice cube glass’ wall, so I’m constantly distracted by it), multiple times, at all hours of the day from dawn until midnight, causing me to speculate how many people actually live there.  I also mentioned that their guests occasionally peer in my glass wall/window, sometimes even putting their hands up to block the side glare.  Into my apartment! They can’t see anything, even with the lights on, except shapes, but I feel kind of skeeved by that!   I told her that other than that one interaction, I’d never spoken with them and didn’t want to start a feud with my neighbors, but that I wouldn’t stand for fabrications and again, “if we’re going to go there”, then I would also no longer stand for morons peering into my apartment.

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So I was just climbing the stairs to my apartment and while on the second landing, I heard a bunch of people coming down from the third floor, where I was heading. I paused politely to wait for them to come down so there wouldn’t be a traffic jam.

I hear them talking and one of the women says REALLY snidely, “Oh my GOD, someone keeps their water bottles on their front porch? How TACKY!”, then they all start filing down the stairs. When they see me, they all say excuse me cordially and one woman was extra sweet — Texas style. Meaning, covered in bullshit, bless her heart.

I smiled back and said jovially, “Oh, it’s no problem. I’m just the woman with the tacky water bottles on her porch.”

They looked uncomfortable and kept walking. But at the bottom of the stairs, I heard one of the women exclaim, “I am SO embarrassed.”

Good, lady. If you’re going to talk shit, keep your voice down or be prepared to be called on it. They’re 5 gallon bottles of delivered spring water, where do you suggest I keep them? Those capris you’re sporting are tacky, but you don’t hear me complaining.

I feel a little bad for firing back and embarrassing her in front of her friends — I could have let it go. But… I didn’t.

No high road for me today I guess. Given the expression on their faces, the low road is more scenic.

Since our last episode of Neighbors Who Suck, I have moved.  I loved my view and I will miss it, but after much soul (and apartment) searching, I found a place and gave my notice. I just couldn’t take one more midnight wildebeast dance party or one more liason with the snatch banshee next door.

My last place was probably one of the “coolest” placed I’d ever lived, in terms of hipness. For the most part, I’d lived in larger complexes that were fairly organized, well-maintained and suburban (though I did my fair share of couch surfing and car sleeping in my late teens and 20’s).  The last place was an old vintage building that I loved so much and the area was close to downtown and had a beautiful view.  It was a “cool” place to live, in terms of the area of town.

When GFI lived upstairs, it was fun — we had a good time and socialized fairly regularly, though we were always sensitive to the other’s need for space. But when she moved, aside from the view, there was really no reason to stay.  Now that I have Lulu, I needed a bit more space and I started to feel my stuff closing in on me.  Plus, with all the turnover in the building, the other tenants, newer tenants, live a “younger” lifestyle than I do (late nights, lots of noise, unpredictable schedules, Miller Lite for chrissake). Not that I’m old, but I’m certainly not twenty-four anymore and we were all just a little too close for comfort. read more >

I figured I’d blog today… you know, to give a update to the patient people who still keep up with this blog or who don’t follow me tweets.  Matey.  That should have said “my tweets”, but we have this thing where if we typo “me (something)” we follow it with “matey”, no matter what.  So I did and… well, now you know.

For those who don’t know, I’m moving out of my apartment in a week and a half.  I am really going to miss Casa Cocktail and all the good things about it, but lately the crap has started to outweigh the good things.  To start, Slick (a.k.a. Guitar Hero) picked up the electric guitar and bass as a hobby, which he played  every day at 4pm for 2-3 hours.  Is it not bad enough that his girlfriend made sex sounds like a caffeinated baboon, he had to fancy himself The Edge at least 5 days a week?  But… a blessing!  He moved out in April and took Ape Escape with him.

But then, GFI moved out.  I don’t know who the hell she thinks she is just moving out and having a life and stuff. I mean, god, lady. Don’t you know everything revolves around my happiness?  Obviously I’m kidding, but I miss her as a neighbor.  She never made a peep, we were BNF: Best Neighbors Forever.  I could text if she needed help when I heard she might’ve dropped something, she could text me to ask if I had margarita mix, we could sit on the patio and gossip about the neighborhood and I never, ever had to hear her pee. read more >

So… I changed my mind about doing a session at BlogHer.  I would rather do something with Kathy and since she can’t be there this time, we’ll wait until next year.  A 30-minute session is pretty darn short to cover much that requires actual instruction, at least from a design standpoint, which is why I wanted to make it more of a “conversation with the Moxie Girls” — a place to just hang out, dish and answer questions about blogging and design.  But, despite the positive response it got, there was also a little confusion, so I think it’s better to just go this year to get a vibe of what the attendees want out of a session.

I was also kind of unclear about how BlogHer handles the submissions and presenters. It would be perhaps several weeks, if not a couple months before I even heard if my panel was chosen, and since it doesn’t appear that speakers get free admission (like SXSW), I wanted to make sure I got my ticket before “early bird pricing” passed me by.  Then I decided if I was going to pay for my ticket, I didn’t really want to be anxious about presenting, too.  Despite my gregarious nature, I get a little nervous speaking in front of groups… alone.   I want to enjoy myself, network, sign some books (I’m working on setting up a signing with our publisher) and mingle with all them fine ladies. read more >

I have gone on many, many times about my quest for the perfect coffeemaker. I’ve gone through several since I started blogging.  Each time I griped about this coffeemaker or that, someone would tell me to get a French press and  I would politely decline.

A French press? How can I possibly achieve that hot, delicious fresh-brewed cup of joe without a coffeemaker? Pour water in, press it down, voila! Great coffee?  Nooo… surely they must be mistaken. In case you hadn’t noticed, I can be quite stubborn.

So how, you might ask, did I end up not only purchasing, but loving my new French press?   A desire for better aesthetics in my kitchen.   Hey, all things can’t be noble. Sometimes you just want things to look pretty.

GFI and I have identical kitchens since she lives directly above me.  We have them set up similarly, too, because we’re dorks like that and we took cues about what worked and what didn’t in each other’s space. For example, we both have our microwaves on top of the refrigerator to save space and we both have tiny lamps scattered around the kitchen for more ambient lighting because we hate the overhead fluorescents. My issue was that GFI’s kitchen always seemed so much cleaner and brighter to me. Same amount of lamps  (two small IKEA colored numbers), pretty much the same amount of stuff on the counter… what gives?

The difference?  GFI no longer had her coffeemaker on the counter. I, on the other hand, still had my big black Mr. Coffee (which doesn’t make very good coffee anyway and chirps annoyingly).  She sang the praises of the coffee press, insisting it produced the most delicious coffee and insisted I go buy one with the Starbucks giftcard she got me for Christmas.

So, for once, I actually did what I was told. I caved in and bought a French press gift set the very next morning on holiday clearance and it was the best thing I ever did.  Coffee-wise, anyway.

It’s easy, it takes no time (4 minutes!), little energy, it’s quiet (which ideal first thing in the morning), I get just the right amount of coffee and the flavor is beyond compare. It’s almost creamy the way it foams and creates this rich froth on the top.  I also have to heavily endorse my new favorite Starbucks blend, Sumatra Extra Bold (press grind).  It makes the most delicious cup, in my opinion, though I have an arsenal of coffee in my cabinet to try. You can use an all-purpose grind, though so far I’ve found the press grind to make the very best brew.

So to everyone who has ever recommended I get a French press, I owe you an apology.  You spoke the gospel and I, too brainwashed by Mr. Coffee, turned the other cheek.  I don’t know why we allegedly don’t like the French, but for the coffee press alone I’d have to declare vive la France!

I need to find a new place to work. It’s very difficult for me to get anything done here lately with all the noise.  If it’s not the freaking parrots, it’s the owner of the parrots who likes to blare his bass in the parking lot despite my repeated requests not to (the same parking lot Tire Guy bangs his tube in).  Every single time he says, “Oh, I forgot. Sorry, I thought no one was home.” And every time, I respond, “I’m always home.” I mean, crimony, dude!  The bass rattles my wall and gives me a headache.  Do I have to hang a sign outside alerting people that I’m home now?

I don’t want to be a jerk, you know? I realize people have a right to live and play their music and whatever.  I also realize it’s during a work week when he thinks people are away from their homes. But some of us aren’t and I pay my rent and deserve peace like anyone else.

He uncovers his damn parrots at 6am in the morning and with it being Summer, everyone in the neighborhood has their windows open.  So they squawk and carry on, especially on the weekends because he sings to them. He SINGS!  You can hear him up there singing to the birds while his wife or girlfriend clanks the dishes around and cooks breakfast.  One morning I yelled out the window “For god’s sake, shut up! This isn’t freaking Costa Rica!” but that didn’t seem to sway him.  I can’t imagine why.

The other day, he was using a chainsaw to cut logs about 3 feet from my open bedroom window.  He’s up a bit higher on the hill, so looking out my window, I was eye-level with the saw.  Dust, wood chips, all this crap was flying in the air and into my windows.  What the hell!!? Are you planning on busting a crackling fire any time soon?  I’m not.  Save it for Winter, dude!

Every time I go ask him to turn down his radio, he’s nice about it and he always says good morning, so I don’t want to be a complete bitch, but this is getting ridiculous. I’ve got to get some work done!  I’ve got to!  And all that’s happening is he’s making me underline things a lot.

*bangs head*

I’ve found the source of the mystery squeak.  It is, like I suspected, the coffeemaker.  While making my morning Gold Coast Blend, I was filling up the pot and after dumping the water in to the coffeemaker, I heard the stainless steel carafe start to squeal… this time, like a pig.  An actual squeal.  I put the pot right up to my ear and sure enough!  Gosh, I can’t imagine why my $24 coffeemaker doesn’t have a high quality seal. 

I think since I started this blog in 2003, I’ve been through about five or six coffeemakers, constantly searching for the perfect one that doesn’t cost half a year’s salary.  I’ve had three different models of the average Mr. Coffee, the first of which lasted me five years and I loved it profusely. It shut off after 4 hours instead of two and it was just the most perfect coffeemaker ever.  When it died, I replaced it with the newer model of the same brand and it busted within a couple months and rarely made good coffee.

After that I had another Mr. Coffee, then got a Cuisinart Grind n’ Brew, which I really, really liked, but I rarely used the grind part. It was a big production, required lots of cleaning and was loud, etc. etc.  I just use my little corded power-grinder for that. It’s loud, but I can muffle it with dishtowel if it’s too early.  The Cuisinart was one of my faves because it made really delicious coffee and again, it had a 4-hour shut off, but it died in about a year.  That’s it!  A year. 

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Strange things occur in my apartment from time to time.  It’s a 53-year-old building, so it’s pretty much strange-ready.  I’ve lived here a little over year now and in addition to the toilet paper roll that occasionally unrolls itself, there’s been this mystery squeak.

I’ve been trying to find the source of this squeak for months.  I ask other people and they either don’t hear it or just write it off as something else, but when I’m alone… that’s when I hear it.  Of course, that just makes me sound crazy, but I’m telling you, people, there is some kind of squeaky chirping sound coming from my kitchen!  I may be a little zany, but I don’t hallucinate… much.

This also not the same chirping I heard a few months ago.  Our upstairs neighbor, Slick (of Project X fame), had said he thought he had a rat once, though that seemed to have been taken care of and was an isolated incident. Though, in my opinion, rats aren’t an isolated incident, but no one else has ever reported anything.  For all I know Nicodemus and his posse are holding town council meetings under the building… but I doubt it.

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In the ongoing saga of my coffeemaker, I’m discovering that every morning is a round of Beat the Clock.  The latest coffeemaker I bought has 2-hour auto shut-off.  I used to have one with this feature and I enjoyed it, as I sometimes can’t remember to do it. But, that one allowed me to extend it another 2 hours by pushing the ON button before the 2 hours were up.  This is not the case with this coffeemaker.  So, every morning, I get about 1 cup … maybe another half-cup before it shuts off. It doesn’t ding or alert me in any way that it’s going to shut off, so inevitably, I get involved in a project, realize my coffee is cold, run out to refill and the damn thing is shut off. Grrrr.

I can’t guzzle my coffee in the morning, you know? Firstly, it’s hot.  Secondly, I’ve got shit to do.  I’m reading and answering emails, tending to the administrative side of Moxie, handling questions, etc.  It shocks me that I can go 2 hours without refilling my coffee, but dammit, I do.  So, it looks like I have choices: get better about going back to check, set a timer on the microwave as soon as I pour my first cup, move the coffeemaker into my office or just get a new one.

See, if I were independently wealthy, I could just get Jeeves to brew it one cup at a time.  *runs to buy Lotto ticket*