Ah, the joys of apartments. Residing in one is a pleasure some people manage to avoid their whole live, while others never tire of the wonders of sharing walls with people who can’t figure out that two a.m. is not a good time to blare Ricky Martin on their stereos.
Love them or hate them, however, apartments provide endless opportunities for life experiences that you just can’t get when you own your own home:
- Only in an apartment do you find out that your next door neighbor couldn’t get her dog outside in time to use the bathroom when you get a note on your door reminding you that pets should not be pooping in the hallways.
- Only in an apartment does someone decide that a building need to be sprayed for bugs and only give you 24 hours notice to clean out your kitchen and bathroom of everything in the cabinets. And then only spray your kitchen.
- Only in an apartment can you be frightened out of your mind by the upstairs neighbors whose footsteps make it sound as though the Jolly Green Giant is about to come crashing through your ceiling.
- Only in an apartment can they limit the number and kind of pet you can have — and charge you for the privilege.
Fortunately, though, only in an apartment can you decide that you no longer want to put up with such ridiculous occurrences and move to a new, better, more soundproofed and less money grubbing complex where maybe, just maybe, your neighbor can figure out how to open the giant sliding glass door out onto the lawn before her dog takes a dump outside your front door. *facepalm*
Maybe. Or we could end up in a cockroach-infested hellhole again (not this place, but a definite blast from the past). One or the other.
On a slightly brighter note, I think I’ve just about decided that I’m going to learn how to ride the motorcycle. This complex is just about ideal for that because the parking lot connects several buildings in a wavy, meandering fashion that will allow me to practice off the road.
I should have known when I bought my gear earlier this year that I was going to succumb to the urge to ride solo. Even though I had never even remotely cared about riding solo and really just wanted the gear to tag along with T. Since I started riding with him, though, I’ve had the irrational urge to put on my gear, walk outside, and take the darn thing for a spin all by myself. Sure, riding by myself really is the next logical step, especially given that we have one car, one bike, and jobs that require us to work very different hours, but it’s not a step I ever saw myself having any interest in taking.
My dad is going to flip his lid when he finds out. He was irked enough when I got my gear and never really eased up about it until he had a chance to inspect it for himself. To him, all sport bike riders are stupid bikers who got bikes with engines far too big for them to handle. Absolute statements of that sort serve only to make you look silly, particularly when faced with a daughter and son-in-law riding together on a motorcycle with a smaller motor than your cruiser’s. Oh, and wearing more gear individually than you put on each time you rev the engine. But we’re the reckless ones. Okay.
And, after two kind of random rambles (I have really got to get back into the swing of blogging and get better about staying on track), a quick PSA:
If someone tries to sell you on the idea that the movie “In Bruges” is a comedy, don’t buy it. Are there funny moments? Absolutely. Is it a comedy? Not unless you thought “Reservoir Dogs” was a comedy, too.