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Sunday, November 19, 2006

The Clanging Shoes of Doom!!!

Greetings, Hazmat Fans!

It's Sunday. And instead of frying my brain out on cable TV (drool...cable....drool...) I have new approach to Sundays. After noon, until 5 pm, Sunday is work time for me. I plan on updating the blog weekly on Sundays (and then whenever inspiration hits besides) but also spending this time to finish writing my novel. I guess you all don't really need to know all of this, aside from the fact that this blog will be updated at least every Sunday, so keep your eyes peeled! And please, feel free to post comments. I'd like to know if people are actually reading my lameness. And what you think of it. And what you'd like to see or hear about. Or not. Just click on the 0 comments link below ... it takes 2 seconds ...

Ok, here's some randomness that literally stopped me in my tracks this morning:

First, you need to know that I am barefoot in my house nearly 99% of the time I'm here. I never wear shoes around the house. So bear that in mind as you read this story.

I was standing in front of my mirror (mind you, it's only 4 steps to the mirror from the closet.) I had JUST put on a pair of shoes to see if they worked with my ensemble. I took the meager 4 steps in my shoes to check it out - and I hear a female, Bostonian-accented voice from below my floor "Gaahddammit - take off yah heels! She's walkin' aaahround in heh heels! Gaahdammit!"

I'm sorry, what?

It's dead silent in my house. I have no music or anything on. Their TV is blasting so loud I can hear which NFL game they're watching, but I take 4 steps in shoes and I'm the miscreant? Not to mention the constant stream of cigarette smoke wafting up from their apartment to ours. If I wanted to smoke, I would do it myself, lady. That's what I should have said. But I didn't. I was so stunned that I actually did take off my shoes and creep back to the closet to put them away. Then I hear her cackling with laughter and telling her booming-voiced man all about it. I wossed out. I should put the shoes back on and dance to the Gipsy Kings for two hours straight. That'll learn 'em! But then I would be wasting my productive Sunday creative time on someone who has nothing better to do than yell at her ceiling. So I've blogged about it instead. And I wait, for the appropriate moment to exact my revenge ...


Kelly said...

I think not only should you put on your heels but you should get the soundtrack to riverdance and have bryan join in, too!

Anonymous said...

Back when I was living in the basement apartment, I could always tell when the man upstairs got home. First would come one almighty THUMMMPPPKERASHHHH. *First work boot!* Then, about 24 seconds later, a second almighty THUMMMPPPKERASHHHH. *Second work boot!* It never occurred to me to be annoyed. If one expects never to hear neighbors, one shouldn't live in an apartment.

(I have a somewhat OCD friend who was like that -- she always got mad or at least mildly distressed when the upstairs neighbor would get up to use the bathroom at night, because she could hear him walking. I asked her if she would prefer he deliberately wet the bed for her convenience. She was thinking seriously about it ...)

On the other hand, when the upstairs neighbors' kids made a regular practice of climbing to the top of their couch and throwing themselves to the floor for seven hours a day ... that got kinda old.

Walkin' four steps in heels? Doesn't cut anywhere near the mustard. :-) What you need to do is host a troupe of sumo-wrestler cloggers.

-LDW, hoping the commenterific procedure works this time