He’s always been super friendly. My front door is right at the top of the stairwell, so I often see him walk by through my ‘ice cube glass’ windows near my desk.  When I moved in, he complimented me on the happiness my yellow hibiscus brought him when it bloomed.  And I thought how nice it was that someone even noticed besides me.  He looked like a nice old man, what I envision a “grandpa” to be.

Cut to a week or so later, when I’m tempted into downloading a Sex Offender Locator app for my iPhone. You can see where this is going.  Grandpa indeed.

Not only are there a handful of the usual within a 5 mile radius, there’s one right on the floor of my building. A couple clicks later and I’m looking at the nice man who likes my flowers.

I made sure to read the offenses because I know there are issues with some of the placements of people on those lists — some 18-year-old’s girlfriend was 17 and she had a vindictive dad or… whatever.  I’m familiar with that set-up, but I knew in my heart it wasn’t that. Not only was he old, the offenses were all… icky. It made me sad to think that this seemingly normal man is a pedophile. Or was a pedophile –  have no idea of that sort of thing gets cured, but his mug shot wasn’t from 40 years ago, that’s for sure.

So, I decided that since I didn’t know the whole story (not that one could really defend that kind of behavior, but I don’t know the particulars and don’t want to), I would pretend I just didn’t know this tidbit and continue to be pleasant.  I’d avoided him through some stroke of luck and only saw him once or twice in the last few months since I found out.  Except…

Recently, it seems like I’ve run into him a lot.  Since the new year, I’ve been crazy busy with work and not left the house much. I’m a hermit lately and one day a couple weeks ago I was getting into my car for the first time in a while and the Friendly Pedophile was just getting out of his.  “Oh there you are!  I’m so glad to see you — you know, I almost stopped by your place the other day to see if you were alright.”

Puzzled, I asked, “Oh? Why did you think I wasn’t alright?”

He smiled that big grandpa smile and said, “Well, your car isn’t always here. I usually see your car come and go a lot more and I noticed your car hadn’t moved in several days. I thought you might be ill. I almost came by to check on you, but I thought that might be presumptuous.”

I wasn’t sure how to take that. If I didn’t know what I knew, I would still think it a bit odd though kind, but knowing “grandpa has a magic lap”, even though I’m not his type chronologically, made me a little weirded out.  I smiled and said, “Thank you, I appreciate that. I’m well, though, thanks! I just work from home.”  DOH!  I mentally smacked myself in the face for divulging that bit of information. What a maroon.

About a week later, I was sitting at my desk with my headphones on, singing at the top of my lungs. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a shape walking past my ice cube windows, which I generally ignore, but the shape paused, backed up and stood there for a sec, then waved at me.  It was the Friendly Pedophile and he’d caught me singing Taylor Swift.

A few days ago, I was down at my car, digging through the mail I keep throwing in the backseat, looking for a missing 1099.  When I got in my car, I noted that FP’s car was in his space, but he was not around.  Yet suddenly, silently, he sidled up to me with his grandpa smile, holding an armful of cheap dishtowels from Costco.  “You better clean out that red car there, missy!” he jovially chided.

A little startled, I turned and laughed politely… like you do.  It was like he saw me go to my car… or maybe it was a coincidence.  But he proceeded to tell me how he got all those towels for only $10 at Costco, that they’re thick and what a great deal!  I told him I’d check them out the next time I was at Costco and let the conversation trail off with “have a good day” as I continued to look for my paperwork.

Normally, I’d think he’s just a nice old man who doesn’t get a chance to talk to very many people. I never see him with anyone else. And it makes me a little sad for him, as a fellow person. But then I’m reminded of his mug shot and how gross and abhorrent those things are, that I figure he’s made his proverbial bed.  I can only assume he thinks I don’t know and I probably won’t ever let on that I do.

So, for now I’ll just keep my eyes peeled for him and continue being polite. He’s a human being, after all.  Though I do feel like I’m observed more now than I’d like or realized.

Oh! There he goes… past my window.   This time, no wave, but then, I’m not tempting him with the siren call of a teenage country singer.

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.

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.

I thought moving to this new complex, which is beautiful, but smack dab in the middle of a corporate business park would be stale and boring, but you know? I really like it.  It’s soooooooo quiet and there’s hardly any traffic.  There’s every convenience I could want within a few blocks, I can access about 4-5 different highways/freeways within a couple miles and anywhere I’d want to go is about a 10 minute drive.

The area is really flat with beautifully landscaped streets and lots of palm trees, so walking and exercise is totally doable (and the area is full of people who walk with friends after work and on lunch breaks and lots of dog owners out with their pets after work — there’s even a little dog park!). The complex is big, but not too big and has lots of amenities like a gym, hot tub and a pool, BBQs, cabanas and all that fanciness, which I plan to use, but you know how that goes.  (Though I kind of don’t have a choice — my ass is the size of Brazil these days).

I originally wanted the largest one-bedroom they had with a den, but there was only one available that overlooked a parking lot (and it had old carpet and a vague scent about it) so I passed and took the slightly smaller one with no den and am on a waiting list for the bigger one, but I’ve decided I don’t need it.   This place is plenty big — much more spacious than my old place. Much. And I’d rather save myself $300 a month.

Corner of living room near hallway

I’m still unpacking, but I snapped a few photos with my iPhone. Some of the biggest priorities I had when apartment hunting were addressed by this complex, so I’m pretty happy: it’s on the third floor, it’s a corner unit, the price is right (for San Diego, anyway), there’s a full-size washer/dryer, walk-in closet, a balcony with storage and… the pièce de résistance, a roman soaking bathtub. When I lived in Dallas, my apartment had one and I became hooked. I had no idea how much those bubble baths balanced me and kept me sane.  Oddly enough, this complex is run by the same property management company and had the same builders as my apartment in Dallas, so I already feel very at home here.

I’ll take some better photos once I’ve got it all unpacked and nice-nice.  Right now, I need to go feed Lulu some cilantro before she riots.  Demanding bun!

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.

When GFI moved out, we really pushed to get a woman to move in upstairs because we thought it would be better. It’s mostly women on this side of the building and, historically, single professional women tend to be quieter and more considerate than say… a guitar-playing baboon fucker.

And lo, we got a woman — a nurse, no less!  GFI met her and she seemed nice enough.  If only she’d known at the time that this woman — nay, this late-20′s girl — has feet made of cement and a double-wide disposition.  She walks so heavily, I half expect to hear “FEE FI FO FUM!”.

She also vacuums at 10pm or later indiscriminately.   Once at midnight in the bedroom on a weeknight!  She finds it impossible to enter or exit her apartment without sounding like a stampede of yaks and… this is the one that really gets me: she is incapable of going to the loo without stomping over to the bathroom, doing her business, then dropping the lid of the toilet and flushing every. single. time.  Now, this is something most people do, right? You go, you do, you flush, but for some reason, she even flushes loudly.  I never really noticed when GFI flushed, but I can actually hear this girl pee. And then she slams the lid and flushes… even in the middle of the night.

My name for her is Godzilla.  Also sometimes The Beast, Moose and “Oh my god, I hate you so much right now, wtf!”.  I tried to make nice in the beginning. I welcomed her with wine and smiles, both the property manager and I alerted her to the fact that this is a very old, very quiet building of single professionals and sound travels, so things like heavy walking and loud TVs/radios should be kept to a minimum. I also let her know I work at home and I gave her my phone number so she could text me if she needed anything or if I got to loud (and of course, it was just a ruse to get her phone number for the same purpose).

She doesn’t care. She told me we had to “learn to live together”.  I’m not your roommate, woman.  I pay my own rent and never had issues with upstairs noise until you got here. Check yourself.

And she lives a ‘younger’ lifestyle than I do, clearly.  Which is her prerogative, but one day, she turned up her radio SO loud it sounded like Fergie was playing live in my kitchen.  And all her little friends were clomping around on the terrace in their kitten heels, so I popped my head outside and there she was, hanging over the railing with a can of Miller Lite (sorry, I’m a beer snob), knocking some back before she and her friends hit “the club”.  Meanwhile, I was looking forward to a hot bath and the Ghost Whisperer, you know?  Different strokes.  I don’t begrudge her the fun, I just asked if she could turn it down a little because it echoes through the tile in the kitchen.  She turned it off and then sent me angry texts about how she feels like she’s “walking on pins and needles” and “I might as well turn it off — I can’t hear it outside”  Uh, it’s not my problem there’s a freeway, an ocean, some train tracks, a trolley and an airport outside that whisk away the sound.  Get a radio for the terrace, Mensa.

I even bought her a little giftie (of slippers — hint hint!) with a note that said I hoped we didn’t start out on the wrong foot and that she’s truly welcome in the building and I hope she enjoys it here.  If she could just try to walk a little lighter, I said, I would appreciate it.   It worked for like, a week. Now she’s back to Riverdancing around the house.

Bottom line?  She’s just a clod.  No grace.  NONE. I don’t expect her to go to Barbizon, for chrissake, but didn’t anyone teach her how to walk like a lady?  She’s a tall girl, but I’m 5’10 and not exactly the slimmest of slims and I’m capable of walking without shaking the damn tschotschkes, why can’t she?  Put a book on your head!  She came home last night at almost 3am, banging and crashing about, peeing and slamming and flushing and finally, I reached over and banged on the wall.  LOUD. I’m done being nice about it.

I gave my notice to move a couple weeks ago. It makes me sad to give up this beautiful view.  And I really do love this apartment, but it pains me to live here sometimes, too.  It’s a vintage building and the apartments have good energy… or used to.  But the landlord doesn’t care about the building as much as I do and I’m tired of caring about the building more than he does.  In fact, I dream of winning the lottery and restoring the building to it’s original glory, then rennovating it to make it eco-friendly.  But that won’t happen and I’m sick of my sink smelling like rotten eggs and the plumbing backing up. I’m tired of the foundation crumbling and the lack of A/C.   There’s not quite enough space now that I’ve got Lulu and while they are going to do some improvements to the building (all new triple-paned windows and a fresh air circulation system — like central air without the conditioning part), I don’t want to wait around for that.  Besides, since the landlord is such a cheapskate (and he’s not paying for these improvements, the Port of San Diego is), he’ll most likely raise the rent once it’s done.  The view is beautiful, but if I’m going to pay more rent, I want a washer/dryer more.

I decided to move to an area of town that doesn’t have a view, but is centrally located — about 10 minutes from everything.  It’s not the most beautiful area of town ever, but the property itself is like an oasis and it’s a big complex with proper maintenance staff and amenities like a pool, fitness center and the like. I’ve got a washer/dryer in my apartment.  It’s bigger than this place and it’s got a new kitchen and a big soaking tub.  It’s very much like my apartment in Dallas, which was comforting somehow.

Like I said, I will miss this place… quite a bit. It’s been one of my favorite places I’ve ever lived and I have great memories from here. But it’s not the same building it once was… the good juju I felt when I moved in is replaced by cursing and wall-banging and other rude neighbors.

It’s time to move on.

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!