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My husband tells me I am a makebate. So, what's wrong with that? I love to write. I have 2 great kids and 1 grandson. I'd love to say I am "retired" but really, who retires from life? Shoot me a question, comment, rant or rave. They are all welcome here. Love dogs, my family, and most of all, debate. Pro NRA, conservative and a right wing lady.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

college aged neighbors - BE GONE

Contrary to popular belief, I was, indeed, a younger woman.  I might even go so far as to say, I was college aged.  I recall the fun of college.  Well, parts of it.  I do not profess to be a saint, although I was named after one.  Boy, I wonder if my parents knew what they were doing when they named all 4 Gartlan kids in honor of saints.  Just as I can assert that we have a dreadful POTUS right now, I can firmly assert that none of the Gartlan kids were saints - and at college age; well, let's just say we might have overwhelmed a priest while in the confessional.  Maybe it's a Catholic thing.

"Oh honey - let's name our children after saints so they will grow up to be perfect."  says the wife.
"Sure dear, whatever you say...", smirks the husband.  (A huge cat like grin across his face)

Living in a condo has some advantages.  It's smaller than a house, easier to take care of, someone else can mow the lawn, do the yard work, snow removal, plow the driveway after one of Steamboat's notorious and even more so, erroneous weather reports - you know the kind - 2-4 " overnight.  Then you wake up to 2-4 feet of the white phat pow-pow, creating havoc to all those dumb enough to not have the right tires on their car.

So, once again, off track.  College aged neighbors.  Where were we?  Right.  So, every fall, the circulation of higher education kids living on mommy & daddy's dime come through and rent the condo above mine, or next door, or below.  There is not enough earplugs, ativan or patience in the McArthur home.  Apparently the other night, the pinheaded fools upstairs decided that it was time for band practice.  Yep, that's correct.  Nothing says, "I AM A RESPONSIBLE YOUNG MAN", then a set of bongo drums, banjo and bass guitar. Add a little liquor to the scene, and all of a sudden every guy thinks that he is Jimi Hendrix revisited.  Ah, news shocker here - You suck! 

The first night the new dudes moved in upstairs, some where in their little brains, they got the wild idea that unpacking at midnight is a good idea.  Bricks for brains!  And apparently, by the noise that was shaking my ceiling, they must own a couple of big boulders as well.  After what seemed like my entire childhood, I finally huffed and puffed, got out of bed, put on my robe, and marched upstairs like a dorm mother.  I knocked on the door, and was greeted by some tousled hair, shirtless fool who said.."Oh, is the music too loud?"  Is he kidding me?  I looked at him with a sneer of irritation - "Really, you think your music is too loud?  How about the unpacking at midnight?  I think that's what is too loud, sonny boy"!!  He gazed into my evil and sinister, just got out of bed eyes and seemed shocked. 

The next day, I contacted his landlord and told her that her tenants perhaps were off the breast a little too early, and needed to be reminded about how to live in peace and harmony.  I am told that apparently these kids would respond to "positive and effective communication".  What the fuck is that?  I feel it might be much more effective if I crammed my bedroom slipper up their arse!

So, here we are, one month into the new upstairs tenants.  I felt for sure that my playing country music loud in the afternoon might send them a clue.  Nope.  My brother suggested taping my stereo speakers to the ceiling and cranking up my right wing conservative talk radio.  Nothing says I love you more than Rush Limbaugh or Mark Levin.  I even overlooked the one day last weekend where the kids upstairs invented a new and fun game where you throw your ski poles from the 3rd story deck, and see if they land upright on the lawn below.  Apparently, this can be a thrill a minute. 

Lucky for me, I am the HOA president.  And unlike our current POTUS in Washington, D.C., I firmly believe in rules and monetary fines.  Come Monday, these pinheads will find themselves with a nice monetary warning.  $50 of "please be quiet". 

A few years ago, we had some girls living next door.  They were nice enough - just dense.  And they got the bright idea to leave decorative candles on their wood stove.  Well, after one joint, time just flies.  They were fading fast in the haze of herbs, and the smoke alarm went off.  0220, and here comes the fire department to deal with the fire.  One of the poor little things said to me.. "Really Ann, candles catch on fire...".  As a mother I have to sit back and laugh.  Did these girls fall off a turnip truck?  Add to which indignity, a bird had flown down their flue and the poor bird got cooked.  Burning candle wax, and roasted poultry.  Yummy.

So, as school once again begins in Steamboat, I hold my breath, and my tongue, and try to coax myself into believing that God hears my prayers, and that one night these wayward "dudes" decides to toss out his pizza box at 0200, only to find our current resident bear at the dumpster, waiting patiently for his next meal... A College Aged Neighbor.

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