Is this a new blog post in my pocket or am I just happy to see you?
I’ll tell you who isn’t happy with me. Yer mama. No wait, she loves me. She says hi by the way, and I am aghast at your childhood antics.
It is my downstairs condo neighbor that isn’t happy with me. Speaking of mamas, he is a total mother fucker, no censoring or softening the blow. Apparently me and the boys periodically make too much noise and the mother fucker pounds on his ceiling in protest. Our noise would be a sporadic thump, perhaps when the boys tackle me or a spaz kid running for two seconds on the kitchen hardwood floor. All between 5:30p and 8p on one of my days I have my kids which is about 50% of the time.
We do not make incessant loud and long running noises. Nor do we ever realize we are being too loud. In fact, since the mother fucker has pounded on his ceiling about four times in the last three months, I’ve had to tell my boys to stop having fun. Luckily we are moving in late March and this guy can go fuck himself.
It’s all fine though really, at least until last Tuesday evening. We thumped and he pounded. We stopped and lamented on how impatient he is and why the fuck does he live in shared walls space when he is so sensitive at 6pm noises? And then, this mother fucker that doesn’t want to be disturbed by noise; cranked up his stereo with a heavy base instrumental that was turned up way past 11. We laughed. But then he went to his garage which is under my bedroom and started up either a motorcycle or some sort of race car. He revved it for about five minutes. The floors were shaking.
The boys were so confused. Will said, “If the mean neighbor (he doesn’t call him a mother fucker like I do) doesn’t like loud noise, why does he make himself put up with loud music and revving?” I hugged Will and told him how proud I am of him being so smart.
Then I told Will that the guy is a fucking mother fucker. No, I said I had no idea but he just learned the meaning of irony. Will then asked if we should go jump on the floor. So we grabbed our pogo sticks and had a party! No, we didn’t. I told him we wouldn’t stoop to the mother fucker’s level. If we were staying past March, I’d go confront him whether in person or via a note at some point. But we get to get out soon and he isn’t worth our energy.
So we laughed again about his behavior and how he is less mature than a first and third grader. And then we put together our guest list for our moving out party. We have narrowed it down to everyone and anyone. Bring pogo sticks, marbles, golf balls, bouncing balls and drum sets. We look forward to doing the jumping jacks marathon with you.