Archie and Popcorn

Around the time that Millie was starting to show signs of illness and decline, the volunteers at the cat sanctuary for Animal Friends Connection Humane Society found a Rubbermaid container outside a rarely-used door.

It was a warm morning, and would later be a very hot day. In the container, nestled among a bunch of warm old jackets, were seven tiny kittens. They all had colds and infections and they were infested with fleas.

I remember my friend Marian posting about it on Facebook--I used to volunteer for AFC, and they are the group from which I adopted the late Harley Dude. Marian and I have kept loosely in touch via social media, and I even commented on her post about the abandonment.

A couple of weeks later, Millie was gone. I saw occasional updates about the seven kittens and thought it would be sweet if I could adopt a pair of them...but circumstances were such that I couldn't adopt again just yet. It bothered the hell out of me that while my heart broke at losing Millie, someone else in the world could dump seven helpless kittens like so much garbage.

Meanwhile, three kittens went with one foster mom, and four went with another. The group of three were named Archie, Angel, and Popcorn.

Angel later passed away, and the boys struggled a little, too, but persevered.

Eventually cured of their maladies and with fleas washed away, they grew into healthy, adoptable cats. Eventually they were adopted, by a couple.

Fast-forward to this past summer, when papers were signed and a condo was closed on. I sent a message to Marian on Facebook, letting her know I'd be in the market for a pair of kitties within the next few months. AFC has a hard time with overpopulation and finding homes for their animals, so she was ecstatic to hear from me. Even though I no longer live in Stockton, it's an easy enough drive and I know the people of AFC well and believe in what they're doing.

August was full of painting and cleaning and new floors. September was move-in time, as I unpacked boxes and found places for everything, and purchased furniture. October and November had some added financial burdens--my car's registration, a plumbing repair--that made it impossible to spend money on adoption fees and litter boxes and everything else cats need to get started.

Through all this, Marian sent the occasional "how are things going?" message, and while I was chomping at the bit to find a pair of sweeties, it just wasn't quite right yet. I eyed December with a lot of hope.

Last week, another message. It had two pictures in it, of a pair of boys.

Turns out Archie and Popcorn's couple are divorcing. There's a baby, and the mother can't afford to keep cats. Nothing has been said about the father, so I assume he doesn't want them.

Marian convinced the lady to keep Archie and Popcorn in a sort-of foster situation because the sanctuary was full, and so were all the foster homes. And she sent me two sweet pictures, while I was out drinking wine and painting with a bunch of work friends.

I looked at the pictures. I cooed. I showed my friends. The next day, I showed Mom. "I'm thinking about it..." I said. I thought about "the boys" and how sweet they looked. I thought of how a young-but-not-tiny pair (they'll be two in April) would fit my current lifestyle very well. They're completely bonded to each other, which is perfect.

So I messaged Marian again. "I'm really considering Archie and Popcorn." By the time she called me on Sunday evening, I was telling her, "Really, meeting them is a formality. I want them."

And there you have it. We spoke on Sunday, and on Wednesday, she took them out of the lady's house to visit the vet for shot updates. They're now waiting at the sanctuary, where I will meet them on Sunday morning. This week has felt excruciatingly slow, as I wait and wait for Sunday to roll on so I can meet my boys.

Popcorn wears orange striped pants. Archie wears white. They're so flippin'
cute with those pink noses, I am about to start bouncing off the walls. 

I shared my news on Facebook, and Marian, in turn, shared it with her friends, including the boys' foster mom. Everyone is very excited to see them get a new home--apparently they're known as being very sweet boys (shy initially, but totally unable to resist cuddles). Their pictures show them to be bright-eyed and healthy. Their journey thus far has had its ups and downs, but they're about to embark on one last big change--a drive from Stockton to Antelope with a very excited lady (and her mother, who is coming along) to settle into their forever home.

Their former foster mom shared baby pictures with me, and the story of how Popcorn got his name.

Archie

Popcorn

Being me, I've gone a little overboard with the toy-buying.

Yes, those are Star Wars break-away cat collars and Star Wars mice.

Anyway, this rambling blog post is all a way of sharing my news that I'm finally adopting a new pair of sweeties. I'll never replace Millie, or Harley, but I have a lot of love to give and rather think my sweet babies would approve. There are far too many homeless kitties in the world, and I'm in a position to help. These boys need me.

And I need them.

Christmas in Casa Meg

The obligatory picture post.

A $5 sign, a $5 candle, a $1 vase, and $3 ornaments.

Another $1 vase with the rest of the ornaments, and a book that
was Aaron's, then mine.

My balcony.

Looking in. It's quite cozy.

My England Tree. I have two Christmas trees, because why
not?

From my February trip. :) 

Also from February--there was a loud squee from me when I
saw Jane in the National Portrait Gallery gift shop.

Tea by the tree.

Mom gave me this last week. Having a bird house in your tree
is good luck.

Christmas stuff was 60% off at JoAnn Crafts, so the little
silver tree was a no-brainer.

I went to one of those Paint Nite deals and left a $5 tip--so our
artist let me pic a tiny painting.

My parents bought these English village pieces many moons
ago. As a child I adored it, so they let me have it.

It's not particularly Christmassy, but we always put it out at
Christmas, so that's what I do now.

I'm going to be all vague and add that I've added another
stocking since then. No, I'm NOT pregnant.

Some of my favorite childhood books. I'm glad Mom kept
them. (Again, NOT pregnant.)

Charlie Brown Christmas Tree. So I guess I have three
Christmas trees.

One Tiffany ornament surrounded by Snoopy.

My second piano teacher, Mrs. Heindmarsh, used to give
me an ornament every year. I have several from her that
I hang with great love each year. She's been gone many
years, but I credit her with helping me learn to love music.

The tree when I first finished it.

I found this topper and realized it would make the perfect
topper for  my eclectic little tree.

I found the sparkly candle cup at Orchard Supply Hardware. 

The England tree, next to my hutch. I started collecting
these ornaments in London Semester 1999. Bought a few
more in 2004-2005, and then another five or six on this
year's trip. Since taking this, I've wrapped some red tulle
around the tree to finish it.

The second bathroom.

Under the tree.

Mom made the sign many years ago, for her parents. She was going to get rid
of it, but I grabbed it. I've had the Peanuts ornaments since high school. 

This pic of Grandma and Grandpa Bean is always on display. I kept it out for
Christmas. 

That doorway on the left is the 2nd bedroom. 

The view from the kitchen. 

Mom and Grandma made these when I was a child. The small bell on top
was my contribution. It's a hot mess, which makes it wonderful to me. I was so
eager to do what Mom and Grandma were doing, and they let me. 

Christmas Comes to Casa Meg

In all of the places I've lived, I can't recall ever having such a hard time really settling in and thinking of a place as home as I have since I bought and moved into Casa Meg.

Sure, I've been moved in since Labor Day weekend, and it didn't take too long for me to get everything out of all the boxes. I pretty much have a home for everything now, except a few framed pictures I'm still thinking about. I've been set up to do everything I need to do in my home life.

But it has still felt...temporary.

It's hard to explain, and I'm not even sure I want to try. I know it has something to do with anxiety, and perhaps being in denial that I'm really responsible for everything in this place. (I'm back on meds, about two weeks in, feeling a lot more even-keeled about everything, which is nice.)

If there's one thing I love, it's decorating for Christmas. For the last five Christmases, Mom let me take over the kitchen table with a four-foot pre-lit Christmas tree and my massive collection of Snoopy ornaments. If the rest of the house looked straight out of Better Homes and Gardens (Mom's got style), my kitchen corner looked like Santa Claus and Charles Schulz co-hosted a raver. Bless Mom for realizing I needed a few of my own special things each year.

This year, I have my own home to decorate, and a week off for Thanksgiving. My usual MO is to set everything up the day after Thanksgiving, but yesterday, I got a bee in my bonnet to at least dig everything out of my storage closet. When I moved in, I shoved a ton of stuff in there, slammed the door, and ignored it until now. With rain coming this week and the closet being on my balcony, I figured a sunny day was the day to wrestle everything out of there...and I ended up setting it up because once it's out, I might as well.

After five years stuffed in a storage unit, my cheap pre-lit Christmas tree still works, and looks really great by the sliding glass door. As I set it up and watched it light up, I realized that this is what I've really needed all along--Christmas in Casa Meg.

Somehow, the simple act of hanging my beloved holiday memories on a fake tree that sheds all over my living room is what I needed to feel like I'm really home.

Today I bought a couple strands of white lights and strung them around the railing on my balcony. I plugged in a giant light-up Santa Snoopy that Mom and Dad brought over for me (we've had him for years). There are plush toys by the fireplace and under the tree, and doo-dads and knick-knacks on the mantel. It's cheerful and homey.

It's home.

Tales From the Schoolyard...Cave Painting

My school is an International Baccalaureate (IB) school, which is a program of study that emphasizes a global approach to learning. IB schools, for example, must offer 2nd language instruction (our school offers Russian and Spanish) to encourage bilingualism. Units of study are developed by teachers to reflect this global approach to learning while also staying true to whatever local standards and curriculum exists (in our case, California State Standards).

This year, as we roll out the IB program in our middle school, I'm building units of my own...and my first one is a unit for my 6th grade art class on Ancient Art. They study ancient civilizations in 6th grade Social Studies, so I figured it would be cool to give them some exposure to the art these people left behind.

While pre-history is not a part of their curriculum, I decided to include the cave paintings of Lascaux because these paintings point to some of the earliest examples of culture being developed. Plus...they're just really cool.

So a week-and-a-half ago, armed with lots of ideas, I started my very first IB unit by turning on my doc camera and reading a short book about the discovery of the Lascaux caves in 1940 to my students.

"That's a 4th grade book!!" called out one indignant student in 6B. 

"Yes..." I replied with a sigh. "But if I found a book at your level, it would take forever to read it to you, and we'd have less time for doing actual art work."

"Ohhh..." 

"Yeah, so just relax and enjoy the story."

After reading, I gave them a worksheet about the caves and we watched a short video of Rick Steves on a visit to Lascaux. The original caves are sealed off, after twenty-odd years of tourism started to ruin the paintings. A full reproduction has been built nearby, though. 

I read one question on the worksheet out loud to the students of 6A. "Why do you think these people painted the caves?"

In answer, I received dead silence and blank stares.

Hmm, I thought. Then: "Okay...this isn't going to leave this room, I promise. But how many of you have graffiti'd something you shouldn't have?"

First, incredulous looks, followed by a couple of bold hands. I smiled at them. A moment later, a few more hands started to tentatively raise, and I grinned even more. More than half the room admitted to it.

"I won't tell. I don't condone it, but this is just a question to help you understand. Okay...now, why did you do it?"

"I was bored..." replied one student. More hands went up. "Yeah, me too--I was bored."

"Okay, fair enough...any other reasons?"

Finally, another hand went up. I called on her.

"I wanted people to know I'd been there."

"YES! See...everyone wants to know that they mattered, that their lives had meaning. It's why we create art, or write books, or make songs. Because what's going to happen to all of us?"

"We're going to die."

"Yes, eventually. And all humans want to know that they have left some sort of mark on the world that will exist when they are gone." 

It was so amazing to see their faces light up with understanding.

We spent the rest of that lesson sketching some of the animal images that are in the Lascaux caves.

On Monday and Tuesday this week (I see 6B on M/W and 6A on T/Th, for about 90 minutes each lesson), I gave each student a cut-up piece of paper bag and some chalks...and we went for it.

I don't yet have pictures of their final products--it was a hectic week (and an emotional one), and they are sitting in bins on my desk waiting to be graded.

For this unit, I'm aiming to find a modern equivalent for each ancient art form we study. Cave art leads quite naturally to graffiti, so on Wednesday and Thursday this week, I showed the students some pictures I've taken over the years of graffiti and street art (believe me, I looked closely at every single image to make sure there was no naughty language!!). We discussed the difference between graffiti (usually done without permission) and street art (usually done with permission) and I gave my "I don't condone graffiti!!" spiel.

In 6B, one boy's eyes lit up, and his hand shot in the air, when I said, "Here's what we're doing today...yes, D?"

"Are we doing graffiti?"

"Why yes...only I'm calling it Contemporary Cave Art."

While they got started on that, I got two volunteers to oversee a whole-class project--our very own wall of hands like one in Lascaux.

Before class, I taped a large piece of brown butcher paper on the wall outside my room. As the kids came in, they could see it, with two outlines of my hand painted with (very drippy) brown tempura.

Before long, my volunteer had kids coming out two at a time to add their hands. She was great--coming in and yelling, "Okay, [name] and [name], it's your turn!!" She made sure there was no paint dripping on the walls.

Every once in a while, I stepped out to monitor things, and it was going swimmingly.

...And a bit drippily.

On Thursday, 6A added their hand prints, and now we have a delightfully odd wall of hands on display, which most of the school has to walk past when going to recess.

Meanwhile, inside the room, there was a hum of happiness as my students drew their names, or words like "love" and "hope" in graffiti letters and blew across marker tips to get a spray paint effect.

I took a few pictures during the process, as students finished up.

The kids have begged for more time to finish their graffiti art next week, so I'll adjust my unit a little to give it to them. Next up is Aztec suns, made from terra cotta clay.

How to Be a Condo Owner, Part Three: They're Both Mine

When I first started the whole process of finding a home to buy, I was pretty adamant that a one-bedroom home would be a deal-breaker. Though we gamely looked at a couple of one-bedroom condos, Kristen and I agreed that a second bedroom was necessary. Most places have small-ish bedrooms and living areas, and I've got my craft table, a lot of books, and a piano.

The piano is non-negotiable. I've had that thing since high school.

For bathrooms, I pretty much figured I'd be stuck with one, or if I was lucky, I'd also get a little half bath for guests to use. As it happens, I ended up with two full bathrooms, and within a few weeks of living here, started laughing at myself as I realized that even when I was literally sitting closer to the second bathroom, I'd still take a few extra steps to use "my" bathroom.

Newsflash, dear brain: They're both mine.

Still, we do develop our little habits, and when you roll out of bed first thing in the morning needing the loo, the one that is three feet from your bed is obviously most convenient. Still, I started intentionally using the other toilet from time to time, just because I can.

Then I noticed that the toilet in the mistress bathroom was constantly running, and--long story short--I am waiting to have a plumber come to fix it because he's also going to fix the leaky bathtub faucet, but before he can, I had to figure out how to turn my water off, which required calling the association's maintenance guys. This, in turn, required them coming out to look for my water shut-off (which I saw in July during the inspection but asking me to remember anything from July is ridiculous because July was escrow and I took in way too much information) so they could show me the where and how of it.

Back to the toilet.

I decided that for now, to avoid wasting water in a drought, and also to avoid having another ridiculous water bill (holy water waste, Batman, why did the previous owner never realize this place's utilities were sky-high because of the dripping?! Oh, yeah, he was a dumbass.), I turned the water off on the mistress bathroom toilet, and am exclusively using the 2nd bathroom toilet only. I still shower in "my" bathroom, though.

It's all very weird and slightly hilarious. This week I can finally call my plumber back and set up a time to fix the bathtub faucet and the toilet (he assures me both are easy fixes), and then get on with my life of having two fully-functioning bathrooms...and not having to stumble across a dark condo at 5:30 every morning just so I can use the loo.

S.O.S.

A few weeks ago, someone on Facebook posted a video about high-functioning anxiety.

I think I was at work, at about 7:00 in the morning, drinking my tea and gearing up to get some stuff done. As I watched it, I started to cry.

It's not exactly a secret around here that I deal with anxiety--and while most of the time my tone about it may seem joke-y or blasé, I'm not being cute. I truly do find myself feeling unaccountably and irrationally anxious over things that, in my mind anyway, I shouldn't. I think I try to joke it off a little, to keep people from worrying about me. Those who know me best see right through my jokes. 

It can be something as stupid as a leaf blower--a constant, loud, whining leaf blower--being used nearby--or, you know, a power saw in the condo below mine. Or it can be the non-stop feeling that I'm never going to get everything done, that each unchecked item on my To Do List is a small failure, and those small failures are adding up into Big Loser. 

My life is never exactly dull. Hey! I'm going to England! To Washington! To Antioch! To Stockton! To Lincoln! I'm buying a home!! I mostly roll with change pretty well and figure it's just part of the adventure. But now that I'm putting down roots, I have this near-constant fear that it's all going to be yanked out from under me. I have a home--a good one, despite it's worn-down parts--and a really great job. And since August, every day, I've lived in some form of terror that it's all going to be yanked away from me.

The boss comments on a behavior issue that happened in one of my classes, and I immediately go into fight-or-flight mode. I'm not aggressive, just quick to defend myself, to try to show that I'm on it, I've got this. I have enough clarity to realize I do this because my boss in Stockton blamed every pre-teen moment on me, even as every other teacher dealt with the same behaviors in their classes. A kid did something naughty, and it would be my fault. My current bosses are not like that. But old habits die hard.

If I'm not fighting to prove that I'm worthy of this job, I go into total flight mode, driving home with tears in my eyes thinking, "I'll just find another job. The kids will be better at another school." (They won't. Kids are kids are kids are...) Or I hunker down at home in a bubble of avoidance, figuring I'll deal with it tomorrow. Or the next day.

Fight or flight is an excellent survival adaptation. But it was never meant to be a 24/7 thing.

Several months ago, I sat sobbing in the doctor's office at Kaiser, having just behaved like an asshole to the physician's assistant over my blood pressure reading. I apologized to the doctor again and again, and cried, and grabbed more and more tissues from the box on the counter as she sat on her little rolling stool and looked up at me on the exam table with the kindest eyes, saying nothing until I had to pause to breathe.

Then, "I can see that you are having some very deep anxiety."

That simple observation, made in a soothing voice, stopped me in my tracks. She understood.

I told her how many changes I've been through in the last few years. Jobs coming and jobs going. A great new job, but still an adjustment. Losing two cats. Buying a new car. You know, life.

She asked if I wanted to take a low dose of anxiety medication. 

"Oh...no. I run. I work out. I think that helps me a lot."

And it does...to an extent. It certainly doesn't hurt, but I feel more and more like it's not enough to really help me at the deepest level. As my anxieties get bigger, there's only so much that a really great workout can do to help.

So for a couple of weeks now, I've been thinking that maybe it's time to go back to her and get some help. Start the anxiety meds again, maybe see if I can talk to a counselor once in a while. I want to take charge of my health so that I can enjoy the really great job I have...because the saddest thing of all is that I really haven't been enjoying it for the last couple of months. It's just been a job, instead of the career I love, and fought so hard to keep.

I made an appointment for this coming week. 

The best analogy I can come up with is that it's like being in a boat that's taking on water. I'm frantically bailing the water out by the bucketful, and mostly staying afloat. People sail by and offer help, but I paste a smile on my face and tell them, "Oh, I've got it! I'm totally fine!" 

I'm not fine. 

But I will be.

How to Be a Condo Owner, Part Two: Repairs

I've said it before, and not much has changed: I hate my dishwasher.

Okay, okay...yes, I'm very glad to have a dishwasher at all--I have lived without one a couple of times--and so what if it's noisy enough to rival the power saws downstairs? So what that it rocks forward when you pull the trays out because it was installed poorly? It gets the dishes cl--

Oh, hell. No, it doesn't.

At least I have a warranty.

Today was my warranty appointment, and while they had told me it would be between ten and two, he was running early and able to be here at 9:15. He figured out the problem very quickly, after chiding me that it's not supposed to rock forward like that ("Yes, I know, it was like that when I bought the place."), and then proceeded to fish a small boatload of paper, plastic, and who-knows-what-else out of all the places where water is supposed to run through while I turned slightly green.

"You're not supposed to put these things in a dishwasher!" he lectured, while I nodded weakly and said, "Yes, I know, I didn't. I'm not stupid" (the last part in my head only).

And so we spent a lovely half-hour together, with me trying valiantly reminding myself that "he was mansplaining" is not a good homicide defense, while he repeatedly told me what was wrong with the machine, and that I ought to not put stuff that will clog the dishwasher in the dishwasher.

Finally, he appeared to be finished, and stood up. Out of curiosity, he peered at the little cylindrical part that's on the sink (damned if I know what it's called, but here's a picture), lifted the metal "cap" part off, and made a noise of dismay that I felt in my toes.

"Does this leak water into the sink?"

"Well, yes."

I mean, I've never seen a dishwasher do that in my life, and yes, I thought it was odd, but--and don't laugh at me, please, I'm new to this owning of appliances business--I didn't think it was a bad thing, really.

"It's not supposed to do that. See here? It is missing a cap, it's been broken off."

"Of course it has." (This, I actually said out loud.)

"I wonder why..." and then he started muttering, and opened the cupboard under the sink, pulled out my garbage can, and made another sound of dismay while I stood there wondering how much jail time I'd get for torching my own home. (Too much to make it worth it.)

"Oh, it's not supposed to do this, you need a plumber!!!"

Long story short, and just imagine me telling it in a Slavic accent:

The part on top of the sink (let's just call it the cylinder) is where the water goes after it drains from the dishwasher. It comes up a small tube and is directed back down by the little cap into a larger tube...which travels down under the kitchen sink through a pipe that meets up with the sink drain under the garbage disposal. The pipe is supposed to go in as straight a line as possible from the cylinder to the drain...mine is a big long U, meaning that water would back up in there if it drained, causing my dishwasher all kinds of angst, and possibly a medium-sized explosion that would flood my kitchen.

So, because the previous owner of this home was a cheap-ass dumb-fuck (*ahem* pardon my French), the only obvious solution was to not actually fix the damned problem, but to break off the little cap in the cylinder so my dishwasher water drains into the sink, and now I have the joy of finding a plumber and also trying to convince the home warranty people that this ought to be covered--and if I can't do that, hoping that my homeowner's insurance covers "cheap-ass dumb-fuck former owners who never fixed anything without squeezing the pennies out of his ass."

Finally, about an hour and fifteen minutes after he'd arrived, I ushered my chatty repairman to the door and felt a few tears well up in my eyes. It seems like nothing about this condo has been easy, but I suppose if it was, it wouldn't be Wild and Absolutely True.

But hey, at least my dishwasher doesn't rock anymore.

How To Be a Condo Owner, Part One: Noise

Living in a small condo, where one whole building is comprised of eight units, means that inevitably, some of your noise is going to leak out. Fortunately, we have thick walls here, so I often forget that there's a whole unit I don't even see backed up to my bedroom and bathroom. Even better, my next-door neighbors, whom I share a front balcony with, do not seem to share noise or get any of my own. The only noise I can hear, from my living area, is when they open and close their front door. Maybe some light footsteps as they walk down the stairs. I can handle this. Plus, I've met both (a retired Air Force father and his adult daughter) and they are both really nice, non-intrusive neighbors.

The traffic noise at night can be a bit obnoxious--every once in a while there's an asshole with a big engine and a small penis on Elverta Road and that can make me cringe. On weekends, hobbyists ride their motorbikes around the field next to my building, which is annoying but not enough to set me on edge.

I can hear the Antelope High School marching band practicing as I type this, but only because I have my sliding glass door open. I'm near enough the stadium to hear the Friday night games, but I love that noise--it's the noises of my own youth, and they're finished at a decent hour, anyway.

What I can't handle, however--what really, really grinds my gears and sets my anxiety off (I'm not being cute--I actually get anxious) is when the unit below mine has construction going on...at bedtime.

As it happens, the unit below mine sold shortly after I took possession of the Rodent Lair. With their escrow and closing and all that fun stuff, I was finally moved in before any real signs of life came about down there, and so far, it's all been renovation.

Now, it took me almost five weeks to clean, paint, clean, put new floors in, clean some more, and move in, so I get it. But my work was largely quiet to my neighbors...and it was all done during daytime hours. The noisiest work I had done was having all the old floors taken out and new ones put in...and that took three days.

So I've been a little...pissy...that for weeks now, there's been hammering, crunching and--yes--power saws roaring, at night time.

I started practicing my tap dancing. I've never actually learned how to tap dance, mind you, but I figured leading with my heels was good and sure enough, it provides a nice thunk. But it didn't stop the noise below, and indeed, things came to a head last week when, at 9:00 (for the record, I get up at 5:30, so yes, I'm in bed at 9:00 most nights, at least reading, if not passing out after a day of teaching and a big workout) one night, I could hear a power saw going right under my bedroom.

Hell hath no fury like a Leo with anxiety trying to go to bed.

I tried stomping, dancing, the whole bit, but alas, the asshole below me kept screeching away with the saw. As my heart rate went up and my blood pressure started to rise, I reminded myself to take deep breaths--surely they'd be stopping soon.

Nope.

Then it hit me.

I pay $215 a month in HOA fees, and there are noise ordinances in this community. Now, most of them stipulate 10:00 as the time to stop making noise, but the language is loose enough to interpret it all as "if it's 9:00 and someone is using a mother-effing power saw in your building, they are, indeed, an asshole, and you have a right to get a decent night's sleep."

Anyway, that $215 covers a lot of things--pool maintenance, gardening, building maintenance--but one thing I really love is that we have 24/7 security. I mean, a real, live human being roaming the complex, not sitting in his office eating donuts and watching porn on his computer. I've seen a couple of different guys out and about, greeting residents, vetting the door-to-door salesmen, and in general, keeping an eye out for all of us who pay $215 a month in fees to feel safe in our homes.

I get the feeling they know who belongs here, who doesn't, and they act accordingly.

So as I sat bolt-upright in my bed, fuming and trying not to explode into a fit of tears and loud cussing out the window, it occurred to me: call security.

I'm that person who saves the number for the security guys in her phone. It just seems smart to have easy access to help when I need it, like if some creeper was trying to bug me in the parking lot at night, or something. Or, you know, when there's a power saw at bedtime.

So at 9:15, I called.

"Hi. I'm in Whoville Village in Antelope...and I know the noise ordinances don't really start 'til 10:00 but I have to be up at 5:30 and I'm a teacher and I'm really tired and stressed and the unit below me is using a POWER SAW right now and I just really need it to stop so I can go to bed."

Whether it was my talent at run-on sentences, or that the guy on the other end just really agreed that using a power saw that late in the evening is just Wrong On Many Levels, he called our on-site dude and had him walk over to talk to the unit below.

From my darkened dining room, I hovered and listened as he knocked and told them, in perfectly friendly tones, that there had been a complaint about the power saw (he didn't even know which unit had called, so he couldn't tell them, either), and, you know, maybe they could call it a day?

Thankfully, they did. And since then, all noise has stopped at a reasonable hour, which leaves me wondering if they had absolutely no bloody clue that using loud equipment in a 900 square foot condo that shares walls with two other units and a ceiling/floor with another might not be kind of asshole-ish.

Do people even think anymore?

Because for real, I was concerned, through the whole process of turning the Rodent Lair in to Casa Meg, that every project had the capacity to annoy my neighbors. I didn't want to be that neighbor, making noise and being obnoxious. I'm told, by the retired Air Force guy next door, that they hardly noticed except for seeing someone going in and out with old and then new flooring.

I don't begrudge anyone their right to remodel their unit upon buying it...all I ask is they let existing tenants around them have some measure of peace and quiet after a certain point in the day.

Otherwise, I'm investing in some tap shoes.