Bang! Bang!

So I know it’s been awhile.  Here is my update:

After spending night-after-night lying awake, listening to fake orgasms, things falling, a loud TV, and (here is a new one) a trumpet practice, I finally lost it to my building manager.  I must admit, describing in detail the noises that I hear is initially embarrassing—perhaps more so for the first-timer, but inevitably (for me at least), I have my limits and I don’t care who the audience is—especially if it’s someone who can help.  The building manager giggled on the phone and said she would write another letter.  Gee thanks.

On one particularly bad night, I had fallen asleep around 10:30 and was having a particularly dreamy sleep, only to hear a hammer (appropriately—see other entries if the irony is lost on you) banging a pipe in my dream…only I couldn’t see a hammer anywhere in the dream.  And then the worst thing happened.  And it truly is THE WORST--those light sleepers out there know what I’m talking about.  I started falling down the rabbit hole into full consciousness.  I was now awake, listening to the “owww oooow ooow oooooowwww” of my neighbor faking an orgasm.  I looked at my clock: 12:27AM.  Oh no she didn’t!!!  Enraged—there was no point trying to relax myself back to sleep.  No one wakes me up on a work--- no one wakes me up PERIOD without suffering my wrath!  I called the doorman.  He apologized for the noise and called upstairs.  They didn’t answer.  I called 311.  I filed a noise complaint.  After spending the rest of their faux romp (I hope that bitch got a UTI) looking at forums about other NYC dwellers’ complaints, I felt a little better.  Apparently, a vocal exhibitionist is pretty common (as are loud kids, garage bands, and domestic violence).  Once the sex was over, the TV volume went up.  It was now 1:30.  I couldn’t relax.  I couldn’t hide my head with a pillow without breathing in my own breath.  I was thinking about going up there.  I was thinking of continuing to bang the hammer.  Feeling pissed and helpless, I got my jacket on high tailed it to my boyfriend’s apartment.  The entire walk, I schemed how I would call our family’s attorney and have them press charges.  How I would call the police again….

After a night of nearly scaring my boyfriend to death, I woke up and went home to get ready for work.  On four hours of sleep, I felt like a zombie.  My body wanted to rest, but I knew I had plans.  People were depending on me.  Dressed and in the elevator, I noticed a (skanky) girl holding a note from the doorman addressed to the apartment directly above me.  With other people in the elevator, I was biding my time.  Once we got to the lobby, she waited to speak to the doorman (who was outside hailing a cab for an elderly tenant) and I seized the opportunity.  Carpe Diem, be-otch!

The conversation went as follows:

Me: Are you apartment 7D?

Skank: Yeaaaaaaaaa

Me:  You are SO friggin loud!

Skank: Umm What?

Me: You and your boyfriend are really fucking loud.  I hear everything that goes on in your apartment.  I know for a fact that you don’t have 80% of your floors covered because I went up there to ask your shirtless boyfriend to turn his cartoons down.

Skank: Well, people complain about 7B.  Maybe you are hearing him.

Me: 7B is an asshole, but you, honey, are extremely loud.  You woke me up and then kept me up last night, so I had to sleep at my boyfriends and now I am going to be late for work.

Skank: Well what time do you go to sleep?  My boyfriend and I work late.

Me: 10:30-11, not exactly early.  And you guys are loud.  I literally hear everything.  [Skank rolls her eyes].  Really?  Let me guess, you had sex last night?  [Skank’s mouth now opens in shock] Yeah, I heard that.  All your moaning and your high heels on the floor, I hear that. Keep it down!

With that I walk out of the building.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen.  I grew a pair.  I drained of patience and REM; I found the balls I needed to create the change no one else could.

When I get to work and speak to the building manager, she apologizes again and tells me that their lease is up at the end of the month and she may not resign them.  May not?  She put them on “probation.”  Whatever that means… And with every heel click, with every chair pull, and every pan “clank”… I email the manager complaining.  While I hate listening to it, I will say… it has been quiet.  No fake moaning.  Though I’m sure I just jinxed myself with that comment.  I’ve been thinking about retiring the hammer.  Yet with that jinx… maybe not! ;)

And there is one dedication that I want to make to the void that I perceive as my…. ok… semi-dedicated readers. I want to thank my boyfriend (let’s call him Pierre) for always being by my side, listening to my incessant bitching, reminding me that all of this crap is only temporary, telling me that it “isn’t as bad as you think” (though you are literally deaf and sometimes your saying this makes me want to punch you), always making room for me in your bed (and in your life), giving me the self confidence I need to be the best version of myself, always having faith in me, and being the Jack Donaghy to my Liz Lemon.  You are really are awesome.