deese people need ay-uh
It's 7:38am and I'm not only up, I'm functional. Shocking. I am not what you'd call a morning person so my alert state at this ungodly, for me, hour is not natural. It's born of necessity.
About 20 minutes ago, there was a bang on my door -- loud and angry banging, followed by a series of impatient doorbell rings. I was rousted from my deep sleep after the first round of knocks. But I remained tucked in and inert because when I first wake up, I'm confused as hell and uncertain of my whereabouts, even when I'm home. The look of confusion and panic, I have to say, scores me major "Awwwwwww!" points whenever I spend the night with a lady friend. They see the look of befuddlement on my face and then proceed to dote on and reassure me. And I eat that shit up. I suffer from Middle Child Syndrome, you see, so I'm a little needy in the attention department.
Moving on.
So I wake up and after the confusion subsides, I realize that my alarm clock is blaring away. It's not so much an alarm clock as a stereo... with the volume set to 17. [Insert the obligatory, paraphrased Spinal Tap riff here]. Anyhoo, my stereo has a programmable timer and since I don't use it to play CDs anymore (yay, iTunes!), it earns its keep by heralding the arrival of 7am each workday morning.
I have the volume on good and loud because I'm a heavy sleeper. I grew up in an apartment with five other people that was in the flight path of Newark Airport and situated just up the street from a very busy NJ Transit train station that frequently had express trains barreling through with horns blasting. My point is that with the exception of flatulent coworkers and the entire discography of Gloria Estefan, I'm not all that sensitive to noise.
Such auditory isolation has its ups and downs because while I have the ability to fall and stay asleep even under the noisiest of conditions, I also sleep through alarms like it's my job. Pretty soon, it will be if I don't get my act together and get to things on time. You know, like work.
Anyhoo, when I heard the frantic banging on my door mixed with the classic rock blasting from the stereo speakers, I immediately had one thought: "Fuck, it's the po-po!" I thought I was looking at a noise violation, fo sho. I muttered and cursed at the bunghole in my building who called 311 on my ass as I climbed out of bed, reached for the power button on the stereo and then shuffled towards the door to face my fine.
I looked through the peephole and saw a bunch of uniformed men milling about in the hallway. I thought it was the coppers for sure. I was suffering from tired eyes as well as my usual tendency to lazily fill in the blanks when I think I already have a handle on the plot.
I kept the chain latch on the door but unlocked the top and bottom locks and slowly opened the door.
"Yes?" I croaked.
"M'am, it's the fire department..."
I mentally interjected, "The fire department handles noise violations?! Why? So they can hose down the perp? I'm so confused."
"... We need to check your apartment for carbon monoxide. The apartment behind you reported an alarm this morning."
Second mental interjection: "No fine! Score!"
"Um, can you hang on a second?" I asked. I had some dangling bras and other potentially embarrassing brick-a-brack to stash before I let an entire battalion into the Tiny Wee Studio.
I opened the door and three HUGE firemen entered carrying axes and shit like that. One took a reading with some meter thing in my kitchen and determined that my apartment was "clean." Obviously, he was not referring to the pile of dishes in my kitchen sink... The other two regarded my apartment with a look of disdain, no doubt because of its puny size. Or maybe it was my case of crazy bed head in conjunction with my penguin fleece pajamas and fuzzy robe adorned with wee Scotty dogs they found so off-putting.
I no longer hear the firemen out in the hallway so I dare say, the scare has been averted. Just the same, if this blog goes too long without an update (longer than usual, I mean), uh... send help.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to put fresh batteries in my detector.
About 20 minutes ago, there was a bang on my door -- loud and angry banging, followed by a series of impatient doorbell rings. I was rousted from my deep sleep after the first round of knocks. But I remained tucked in and inert because when I first wake up, I'm confused as hell and uncertain of my whereabouts, even when I'm home. The look of confusion and panic, I have to say, scores me major "Awwwwwww!" points whenever I spend the night with a lady friend. They see the look of befuddlement on my face and then proceed to dote on and reassure me. And I eat that shit up. I suffer from Middle Child Syndrome, you see, so I'm a little needy in the attention department.
Moving on.
So I wake up and after the confusion subsides, I realize that my alarm clock is blaring away. It's not so much an alarm clock as a stereo... with the volume set to 17. [Insert the obligatory, paraphrased Spinal Tap riff here]. Anyhoo, my stereo has a programmable timer and since I don't use it to play CDs anymore (yay, iTunes!), it earns its keep by heralding the arrival of 7am each workday morning.
I have the volume on good and loud because I'm a heavy sleeper. I grew up in an apartment with five other people that was in the flight path of Newark Airport and situated just up the street from a very busy NJ Transit train station that frequently had express trains barreling through with horns blasting. My point is that with the exception of flatulent coworkers and the entire discography of Gloria Estefan, I'm not all that sensitive to noise.
Such auditory isolation has its ups and downs because while I have the ability to fall and stay asleep even under the noisiest of conditions, I also sleep through alarms like it's my job. Pretty soon, it will be if I don't get my act together and get to things on time. You know, like work.
Anyhoo, when I heard the frantic banging on my door mixed with the classic rock blasting from the stereo speakers, I immediately had one thought: "Fuck, it's the po-po!" I thought I was looking at a noise violation, fo sho. I muttered and cursed at the bunghole in my building who called 311 on my ass as I climbed out of bed, reached for the power button on the stereo and then shuffled towards the door to face my fine.
I looked through the peephole and saw a bunch of uniformed men milling about in the hallway. I thought it was the coppers for sure. I was suffering from tired eyes as well as my usual tendency to lazily fill in the blanks when I think I already have a handle on the plot.
I kept the chain latch on the door but unlocked the top and bottom locks and slowly opened the door.
"Yes?" I croaked.
"M'am, it's the fire department..."
I mentally interjected, "The fire department handles noise violations?! Why? So they can hose down the perp? I'm so confused."
"... We need to check your apartment for carbon monoxide. The apartment behind you reported an alarm this morning."
Second mental interjection: "No fine! Score!"
"Um, can you hang on a second?" I asked. I had some dangling bras and other potentially embarrassing brick-a-brack to stash before I let an entire battalion into the Tiny Wee Studio.
I opened the door and three HUGE firemen entered carrying axes and shit like that. One took a reading with some meter thing in my kitchen and determined that my apartment was "clean." Obviously, he was not referring to the pile of dishes in my kitchen sink... The other two regarded my apartment with a look of disdain, no doubt because of its puny size. Or maybe it was my case of crazy bed head in conjunction with my penguin fleece pajamas and fuzzy robe adorned with wee Scotty dogs they found so off-putting.
I no longer hear the firemen out in the hallway so I dare say, the scare has been averted. Just the same, if this blog goes too long without an update (longer than usual, I mean), uh... send help.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm off to put fresh batteries in my detector.
Labels: apartment dwelling
posted by curly mcdimple @ 7:33 AM :: permalink :: ::
