the beat goes on

I feel like I've been rather negative on the ol' blog lately. I've tried to avoid posts without any redeeming quality aside from venting, but maybe just one won't be so bad. :)

You know how certain annoying events or occurrences aren't a big deal, unless you've put up with them in the past? Sometimes, when something small reminds me of some huge past grievance, I react in a way that is far overblown. I am having that feeling right now.

I don't recall if I've mentioned the apartment where Lizzy and I lived before we moved out to Manassas. We loved being in Rosslyn -- yes, I'll go ahead and speak for her, since she almost never had to get into a car during that era, except during the Dark Days when her daddy and I weren't together, and she commuted out and in with him, but hey, she's doing it now all the time, so I guess it wasn't that bad after all, hey? -- Rosslyn is SO convenient. And has a nice park or two, in one of which is buried a whole bunch of important military people. A nice place to walk and ponder stuff. But not to jog, regardless of what Hollywood will lead you to believe -- they always film those scenes elsewhere. Anyway, this apartment was a couple of blocks down the street from our previous, and very awesome, first Rosslyn apartment -- the one Mike and Stacy moved out of when they went to The Shire. That apartment -- the first one -- had such lovely, thick walls. I've never been in a place that carried less noise from apartment to apartment. Out in the hall, you could hear some stuff sometimes -- the doors allowed sound to carry a bit -- but who cares? You're not trying to sleep in the hallway, generally.

This second apartment afforded us more space, and some precious counter space in the kitchen. A lovely, remodeled kitchen, a new carpet, etc. Lizzy and I had our own bedrooms! I could close her door and actually watch TV. Bliss! (The first Rosslyn apartment was rather small.)

Sadly, our very nice neighbor next door moved out a few months after we moved in -- I'm pretty sure there wasn't a connection there -- and a total jerk took his place. This guy loved to throw raging parties -- "Dude, I've never been so drunk! I'm not sure I can even drive home," was heard one night as one of Jerk's friends stumbled down the stairwell past me. On his way to his car. Charming. I was really tempted to call the police and ask them to pick off the DUIers one by one as they departed. I'm a sweetheart like that.

If this guy was home, his music was on. Always. Really loud. Always thumping. You could feel it, if you put your hand on the adjoining wall. He had a cute little blonde girlfriend who tried to run us down with her car one time, as well. The hazards of, well, living someplace with neighbors, I guess.

It's one thing to have loud neighbors. Annoying, but, I suppose, bearable. It's an entirely other thing to have a 1-year-old who doesn't like to sleep in the first place, to try to get down each night while these shenanigans are raging. Also, we had a couple of lovely Moroccan men in the apartment above us who loved to have dinner parties and talk, VERY LOUDLY, late into the night.

We got our revenge at 1:30 a.m. many nights, when Lizzy would wake up, crying. I honestly don't remember why, all the crying. Did she want me, and did I cruelly insist on sleeping in my own bed, and having her sleep in hers? I think it was for a sippy cup of milk, actually. The mommy brain tends to forget these details, as soon as it is allowed.

I'm reliving these fond memories today, because we have neighbors HERE AT WORK, in the National Press Building, for goodness' sake, who are apparently having some sort of midday rage. Next door or above us; it's difficult to say. My cube neighbor, D., says it sounds like it might be Eminem. It's the fastest-paced, thumpiest Eminem I've heard, if so. And I thought I liked Eminem (mostly). Not when coming through the wall, mutedly, though.

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.