Yes, you read that right.
Tonight, my very insightful 3 year old asked “How did I come out of your belly??” Now, I’m not the kind of mom to sugar coat much on the biology/anatomy front. I believe in honest age-appropriate answers. He knows that sometimes women have big bellies because they are growing babies. But I was relieved to be able to answer honestly, “Well, honey, the doctor had to cut my tummy a little bit and pull you out.” I mean, let’s face it, explaining vaginal delivery is not exactly age-appropriate for any age.
I’ve made a decision. I’m buying our house. Let me re-phrase that, when we have money saved in like 8 years and we can buy a house, I’m picking it out. I might let my husband express his opinion, but I will make the decision by myself.
This apartment has been nothing but one problem after another. The kitchen is a disaster. We bought a fullsize dishwasher b/c the small one we had was way too small. We measured everything and thought, ok, perfect, just enough room for a regular sized dishwasher. Well, guess what. The wall is crooked! So, while there is enough room at the front to put the dishwasher in, but it stops about 2/3 of the way and gets stuck on the wall. Our old apartment was pretty awful, and I will admit that this place is an improvement. But seriously y’all, I was only able to deal with the old apartment because I could close my eyes, take a deep breath and remind myself that it was only temporary. Now A says that we have to stay here until we buy a house (in 8 years)! Gah!!!
Oh, and the only reasons I relented and accepted this apartment is because the rent was slightly less and it had a yard for O to play in. Guess what, he doesn’t like to go outside and play by himself.
If you’ll excuse me now, I’m going bang my head on the wall. I’ll try the wall where the dishwasher belongs, maybe I can knock off some of the plaster so I can get my dishwasher in place ._.
Update: Our landlord came over tonight. He had to take out a cabinet next to the dishwasher, but now the dishwasher is under the counter and working. Oh, and now there is only one cabinet and an oven in between the sink and dishwasher. One less foot of dripping water when I load the dishwasher! Now, where in the heck am I going to stick this cabinet???
I’m considering learning voodoo. Or perhaps finding a special novena to pray. Maybe I should just burn some sage and glue salt to my ceiling to keep the bad juju from falling in on our heads.
Whatever I do, I’m going to have to do it quick. You see, as someone not quite cut-out for confrontation, I’m running out of options. Our upstairs neighbors are, nicely put, asshats. One or both of them drinks (really) heavily. They fight roughly 5 times a week. Loudly. Throwing furniture. Till 2 am sometimes and then they’re at it again at 7 the next morning. Rumor has it he beats her, and by the looks of her face, I believe the rumors. Oh, and they’re in their mid to late seventies. I keep thinking that I’d be too old for this shit, so they are double-y to old to be living out a Rhianna-Chris Brown love affair.
We’ve called the landlord. We’ve called the cops several times. The cops came once, but when they rang our bell, Penny started barking and the people upstairs shut up for the 5 minutes the police were here. They basically said unless someone calls out for help, they really couldn’t do anything. I’ve taken to playing music rather loudly during the day. Which, when I go out in the hall or down to the cellar, I can’t hear it, so then I have to wonder, How f—ing loud are these people? I mean, we can hear entire arguments. He was calling out for help the other day and Armin heard her say something to the effect of wanting an apology for something. We eventually called the cops, who then called an ambulance. Supposedly the old man fell… Fell? Drunkenly stumbled? Was pushed by his wife? Who the heck knows?
The funny part is, when we moved into the building I worried that we would be the loud ones.