a knock, knock, knocking on my chamber door
The house is a wreck and I've just called the cops.
crapcrapcrap.
I knew I should have cleaned this weekend, but there were those two parties and all that napping to get done and now I have less than three minutes to sweep through the entire house, kick my clothes into the closet and stuff them into drawers, shove the mail and assorted stacks of papers blown by some unknown wind to the four corners of my house into some semblance of a stack, toss dishes (neatly) into the sink and move the bathroom cabinet back into the bathroom where it belongs instead of where it's been (in the hallway) since the last time I mopped the bathroom floor.
Fred's duck, a huge stuffed toy the size of a three year old child, is lying face down on the living room floor, bits of fluff strewn around him like a bizarro CSI shooting victim and it just somehow seems wrong. So I throw him (the duck) over the couch feeling criminal in the process (evidence tampering) and as I do, catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realize that my bangs are doing a better than fair impression of Cameron Diaz's coiffeur from There's Something About Mary. Crap. Is it an inappropriate reaction to reach for hair gel in a crisis? Do I have time for a quick blow dry?
The cop is ridiculously attractive. Of course. The gel didn't take. Of course. And Fred is barking his head off. Of course. My feet are freezing in flip flops and I've got that nervous dry mouth thing from trying to keep my facts straight, clear and simple while unsuccessfully navigating the zipper on my sweater (silently cursing myself for not sleeping in a bra. . .think ahead Jill!) and managing a maniacal Chihuahua mix who really doesn't like people in hats - even nice, good-looking police officers in hats. He doesn't like hats like he doesn't like doors that bang in the night (or at any hour, really) and so Fred's having a bad go of it, because it was the repeated and very loud banging of a door that woke us. Which is just what I was telling Officer Adorable.
He just kept saying, "Jill, Jill! We need to ope. Ope!"
And I said, "I'm not opening the door, Robin! (Robin, in a nutshell, is my new duplex mate -- who may or may not have once been a woman -- who lives with this big burly dude named J.D. who owns his own carpet cleaning company. Maybe. Upon meeting me, J.D., in practically the same breath, a) asked if I knew anyone with a truck to help him move his bed from his old place and b) generously offered me a gig cleaning carpets over the weekends if I ever needed extra cash. To which, because I'm a nice person, I didn't suggest that he clean an extra carpet or two himself so he could afford to rent his own truck, and instead declined with a thank you on both counts.)
And he kept saying,"Jill, ope!"
So I said, "Do I need to call someone?"
And he said. . . I think he said yes. And I said, "Do I need to call the cops?" and I . . . I'm not sure what he said, but I said, "I'm calling the cops." And all the while I'm talking, my sweater still won't zip and I think there's a coffee stain on the shirt underneath and Fred is barking barking barking at the very cute cop and I'm thinking, please don't come into my house.
He doesn't.
But then I feel cheated. I mean, I did all that cleaning. Also, it seems somehow not very thorough. Aren't they supposed to take a look around? Bear witness to the thinness of my walls and the sturdiness of my doors and write it up in a report that gets filed and ultimately ignored? Are my feelings of no importance here?
Anyway, as it turns out, Robin was just very drunk and just very badly needed my attention at four in the morning and thought the best way to get it was to slam my screen door over and over and over again until I woke up to come have a chat. That's the story I'm telling myself, anyway. Either that or he was having a stroke. (We aren't, at this time fielding any contradictory scenarios for this early morning incident that might suggest a lover's spat or some real psychological difficulties on the part of my new neighbors, thank you for your concern. I have to live here and denial is my friend.)
In the end, Officer Adorable banged on Robin's door to tell him to stop banging on my door. Robin stuttered, mumbled and slurred that hadn't done anything. Officer Adorable told him that he should stop doing nothing then and then he left. Cute, but not so helpful. And that is that.
Anyway, if only for the sake of Fred's nerves, it really may be time to move.
But then that would mean I'd really have to clean. So I'm weighing my options.
crapcrapcrap.
I knew I should have cleaned this weekend, but there were those two parties and all that napping to get done and now I have less than three minutes to sweep through the entire house, kick my clothes into the closet and stuff them into drawers, shove the mail and assorted stacks of papers blown by some unknown wind to the four corners of my house into some semblance of a stack, toss dishes (neatly) into the sink and move the bathroom cabinet back into the bathroom where it belongs instead of where it's been (in the hallway) since the last time I mopped the bathroom floor.
Fred's duck, a huge stuffed toy the size of a three year old child, is lying face down on the living room floor, bits of fluff strewn around him like a bizarro CSI shooting victim and it just somehow seems wrong. So I throw him (the duck) over the couch feeling criminal in the process (evidence tampering) and as I do, catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and realize that my bangs are doing a better than fair impression of Cameron Diaz's coiffeur from There's Something About Mary. Crap. Is it an inappropriate reaction to reach for hair gel in a crisis? Do I have time for a quick blow dry?
The cop is ridiculously attractive. Of course. The gel didn't take. Of course. And Fred is barking his head off. Of course. My feet are freezing in flip flops and I've got that nervous dry mouth thing from trying to keep my facts straight, clear and simple while unsuccessfully navigating the zipper on my sweater (silently cursing myself for not sleeping in a bra. . .think ahead Jill!) and managing a maniacal Chihuahua mix who really doesn't like people in hats - even nice, good-looking police officers in hats. He doesn't like hats like he doesn't like doors that bang in the night (or at any hour, really) and so Fred's having a bad go of it, because it was the repeated and very loud banging of a door that woke us. Which is just what I was telling Officer Adorable.
He just kept saying, "Jill, Jill! We need to ope. Ope!"
And I said, "I'm not opening the door, Robin! (Robin, in a nutshell, is my new duplex mate -- who may or may not have once been a woman -- who lives with this big burly dude named J.D. who owns his own carpet cleaning company. Maybe. Upon meeting me, J.D., in practically the same breath, a) asked if I knew anyone with a truck to help him move his bed from his old place and b) generously offered me a gig cleaning carpets over the weekends if I ever needed extra cash. To which, because I'm a nice person, I didn't suggest that he clean an extra carpet or two himself so he could afford to rent his own truck, and instead declined with a thank you on both counts.)
And he kept saying,"Jill, ope!"
So I said, "Do I need to call someone?"
And he said. . . I think he said yes. And I said, "Do I need to call the cops?" and I . . . I'm not sure what he said, but I said, "I'm calling the cops." And all the while I'm talking, my sweater still won't zip and I think there's a coffee stain on the shirt underneath and Fred is barking barking barking at the very cute cop and I'm thinking, please don't come into my house.
He doesn't.
But then I feel cheated. I mean, I did all that cleaning. Also, it seems somehow not very thorough. Aren't they supposed to take a look around? Bear witness to the thinness of my walls and the sturdiness of my doors and write it up in a report that gets filed and ultimately ignored? Are my feelings of no importance here?
Anyway, as it turns out, Robin was just very drunk and just very badly needed my attention at four in the morning and thought the best way to get it was to slam my screen door over and over and over again until I woke up to come have a chat. That's the story I'm telling myself, anyway. Either that or he was having a stroke. (We aren't, at this time fielding any contradictory scenarios for this early morning incident that might suggest a lover's spat or some real psychological difficulties on the part of my new neighbors, thank you for your concern. I have to live here and denial is my friend.)
In the end, Officer Adorable banged on Robin's door to tell him to stop banging on my door. Robin stuttered, mumbled and slurred that hadn't done anything. Officer Adorable told him that he should stop doing nothing then and then he left. Cute, but not so helpful. And that is that.
Anyway, if only for the sake of Fred's nerves, it really may be time to move.
But then that would mean I'd really have to clean. So I'm weighing my options.
posted by jill at 3/21/2006 05:17:00 AM
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