Yoga Mom and The Loud Neighbours
14.04.09
The Power of an Old Bag in a Bathrobe and Fuzzy Slippers
by Stacey Kaser
The sun is out, the
weather is finally warming up, and those tiny little
daffodils have unfolded. I think it’s spring. And
this year, I’m happy about it.
It wasn’t that way last year. Oh, no. Last year, I was dreading it.
Because of the Neighbours From Hell.
Just imagine going to bed, after a long day. The children are snuggled away, you’ve folded the laundry, cleaned the kitchen, watched Jon Stewart. Your day is done, time for a well earned rest.
Then ... just as you close your eyes ... Unk DUH unk DUH unk DUH. It’s pulsing base of heavily synthesized electronic Dance Music. Unk DUh unk DUH unk DUH.
Dear reader, the house next door had been rented out to a group of 30 somethings: a professional deejay (I kid you not), a designer of sound systems for nightclubs, and a gentleman who I can only assume was up and coming ecstasy dealer.
And after they finished their long days on the job work they’d bring their “work” home with them -- along with about 500 of their closest friends.
And how do you think deejays, stereo experts, and ecstasy dealers spend their down time? Unk DUH unk DUH. That’s right. Parties.
And not just all night parties, oh, now. Thanks to the wonders of modern pharmecology, they coud stay up for DAYS. Whole weekends. 72 hours of Unk Duh Unk DUh Unk Duh.
I tried to be tolerant. On Sunday morning, after their first all night “housewarming”, the Merry Pranksters spilled on to the back deck. I beckoned over the fence. “Can you keep it, down, I’ve got kids trying to sleep,” I said. Trying to come across as suitably-hip-but-firm. Nice try, but no luck.
Uhnk DUH unhk DUH. All summer.
My husband did have a exchange of views with them, at greater length and in some detail. He tried to convey how he felt about dufuses who still haven’t grown up even when they’re 30.
Of course we -- and our other neighbours -- phoned the police. Of course we wrote letters. Of course we complained to the landlords. The landlords tried to evict them but they appealed to a landlord/ tenant tribunal which ruled that they could stay. This made me seriously consider whether Canada is a socialist country after all.
Well meaning friends offered suggestions. Blast back at them with music they would find repellant -- perhaps a medley of the Eagles Greatest Hits. That didn’t work: I doubt their damaged eardrums could even register the sound. Firebombs? Hit men?
As much as I might want to murder them, of course I couldn’t. I am supposed to be enlightened. And I am a mother. Who would care for my children if I was sent to jail?
Our Neighbours From Hell continued to party into autum, as the leaves fell. Winter wasn’t so bad, because they closed their doors and hung blankets or flags over the windows to keep in the heat. It muffled the sound and blocked our view of the seizure inducing strobe lights. It was a little bit easier to be philosophical.
But then came spring.
I was out in the garden on one of the first glorious days, pulling weeds, when the first pulse of Unk DUH unk DUH started.
All day I reminded myself that it is important to accept the things you cannot change, that perhaps, after all, the universe was trying to teach me... but uhk DUH unk DUH kept breaking into my thoughts.
Unk DUH unk DUH. I lay in bed that night, trying not to panic at the thought of another six months without sleep. I tried everything, deep breaths, emptying my mind. And it worked. By 7:30 the next morning, nothing remained but pure, white hot... rage.
I was clear, focused. I knew that even if the house was full of ecstasy and crystal meth riddled zombots who would murder me as I crossed the threshold -- I had to stop this.
I didn’t brush my teeth or look in a mirror. I pulled on my bathrobe, shoved my feet into my originally fuzzy but now pathetically worn slippers, stomped down the stairs, through the kitchen, past my startled husband -- out the front door, down the street, up their front steps. unk DUH unk DUH unk DUH just got louder and louder as I approached. But it didn’t stop me. No. I was MAD.
I reefed open their door, and was instantly buffetted by sound waves. UNK DUH UNK DUH. I pushed on, shoving through the hordes of weaving partiers, in my bathrobe with my hair sticking up in great greasy gobs and my fuzzy slippers, now slightly muddy from the treck across the lawn. I was a guided missile, intent on one target: that stereo.
They parted before me, in shock and amazement. I am sure that several thought I was merely a very very bad hallucination. But as I approached their Precious Sound System, the “host” bolted in front of me, blocking my access. He asked me why I was there.
I said, “I’m turning your $#%# music off. That’s what.”
I guess, for some of them, this was all too reminiscent of their teen years, when someone’s mother or father would stomp into the rec room and tell them to turn down the stereo -- altlhough I am sure their mother didn’t use the kind of language I used. Or maybe they were afraid I had a sledge hammer tucked away in the robe and I’d smash their equalizer. Whatever. There were some hasty apologies, some snickers, but -- oh, bliss! -- someone flipped a dial or turned off the nuclear reactor that must have been required to power that sucker -- whatever. The music finally stopped.
Silence. Waves of relief and peace flooded through me. Finally. Finally. Things were right with the universe.
I was turning to leave when one of them, I think the ecstasy dealer, stepped in front of me. “Hey, he said, “You can’t just go walking into my house like that.”
“Well, I just did,” I said.
“It’s illegal,” he stepped close to me, angry. He was wearing tinted sunglasses that he’d pushed to the top of his head, so he could scare me by glaring at me. I glared right back.
“So go ahead. Call the cops.” I folded my arms over my chest -- hoping he actually would. I could see a few guests nervously glance at the jumble of drug paraphernalia on the coffee table. My host was definitely not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree.
“You don’t have any right to walk in here,” he growled.
Oooh. You’ve heard that from your teens, haven’t you? “You have no right...” Nothing sets me, as a parent, off on a diatribe more than when a completely irresponsible, non tax paying, socially dependent starts telling me about their rights.
So, I started ranting.
“You didn’t listen when we asked. You didn’t pay attention to the cops. You didn’t pay attention to the landlord. So now maybe you’ll pay attention to an old bag in a bathrobe.”
Some of his friends started to laugh. Mr Christmas Bulb’s eyes narrowed -- dangerously. He didn’t like feeling ridiculed. I was pretty sure he wanted to deck me, in spite of the supposedly benign effects of ecstasy.
So this is it, I thought. This is when I get creamed in the head with a Smirnoff bottle and my children are orphaned. So be it. It will be worth it. I stood my ground, and narrowed my eyes even more than he had.
Fortunately, his friends shuffled forward between us. “Just leave, now, please,” one begged. “We’re moving out at the end of the month.”
“Good!” I snarled.
I left. True to their word, the Neighbours From Hell were gone by the end of the month. Strangely, they did not have a house breaking party when they moved. Perhaps this is because they’d already broken up quite a bit of the house already. But I like to think that they were afraid of me. The Old Bag in the Bathrobe.
And this year, I can the trills of the birds, the crickets rumbling in the woods, and my children clacking away on MSN when they are supposed to be doing homework.
Once again, spring is beautiful.
Namaste.
It wasn’t that way last year. Oh, no. Last year, I was dreading it.
Because of the Neighbours From Hell.
Just imagine going to bed, after a long day. The children are snuggled away, you’ve folded the laundry, cleaned the kitchen, watched Jon Stewart. Your day is done, time for a well earned rest.
Then ... just as you close your eyes ... Unk DUH unk DUH unk DUH. It’s pulsing base of heavily synthesized electronic Dance Music. Unk DUh unk DUH unk DUH.
Dear reader, the house next door had been rented out to a group of 30 somethings: a professional deejay (I kid you not), a designer of sound systems for nightclubs, and a gentleman who I can only assume was up and coming ecstasy dealer.
And after they finished their long days on the job work they’d bring their “work” home with them -- along with about 500 of their closest friends.
And how do you think deejays, stereo experts, and ecstasy dealers spend their down time? Unk DUH unk DUH. That’s right. Parties.
And not just all night parties, oh, now. Thanks to the wonders of modern pharmecology, they coud stay up for DAYS. Whole weekends. 72 hours of Unk Duh Unk DUh Unk Duh.
I tried to be tolerant. On Sunday morning, after their first all night “housewarming”, the Merry Pranksters spilled on to the back deck. I beckoned over the fence. “Can you keep it, down, I’ve got kids trying to sleep,” I said. Trying to come across as suitably-hip-but-firm. Nice try, but no luck.
Uhnk DUH unhk DUH. All summer.
My husband did have a exchange of views with them, at greater length and in some detail. He tried to convey how he felt about dufuses who still haven’t grown up even when they’re 30.
Of course we -- and our other neighbours -- phoned the police. Of course we wrote letters. Of course we complained to the landlords. The landlords tried to evict them but they appealed to a landlord/ tenant tribunal which ruled that they could stay. This made me seriously consider whether Canada is a socialist country after all.
Well meaning friends offered suggestions. Blast back at them with music they would find repellant -- perhaps a medley of the Eagles Greatest Hits. That didn’t work: I doubt their damaged eardrums could even register the sound. Firebombs? Hit men?
As much as I might want to murder them, of course I couldn’t. I am supposed to be enlightened. And I am a mother. Who would care for my children if I was sent to jail?
Our Neighbours From Hell continued to party into autum, as the leaves fell. Winter wasn’t so bad, because they closed their doors and hung blankets or flags over the windows to keep in the heat. It muffled the sound and blocked our view of the seizure inducing strobe lights. It was a little bit easier to be philosophical.
But then came spring.
I was out in the garden on one of the first glorious days, pulling weeds, when the first pulse of Unk DUH unk DUH started.
All day I reminded myself that it is important to accept the things you cannot change, that perhaps, after all, the universe was trying to teach me... but uhk DUH unk DUH kept breaking into my thoughts.
Unk DUH unk DUH. I lay in bed that night, trying not to panic at the thought of another six months without sleep. I tried everything, deep breaths, emptying my mind. And it worked. By 7:30 the next morning, nothing remained but pure, white hot... rage.
I was clear, focused. I knew that even if the house was full of ecstasy and crystal meth riddled zombots who would murder me as I crossed the threshold -- I had to stop this.
I didn’t brush my teeth or look in a mirror. I pulled on my bathrobe, shoved my feet into my originally fuzzy but now pathetically worn slippers, stomped down the stairs, through the kitchen, past my startled husband -- out the front door, down the street, up their front steps. unk DUH unk DUH unk DUH just got louder and louder as I approached. But it didn’t stop me. No. I was MAD.
I reefed open their door, and was instantly buffetted by sound waves. UNK DUH UNK DUH. I pushed on, shoving through the hordes of weaving partiers, in my bathrobe with my hair sticking up in great greasy gobs and my fuzzy slippers, now slightly muddy from the treck across the lawn. I was a guided missile, intent on one target: that stereo.
They parted before me, in shock and amazement. I am sure that several thought I was merely a very very bad hallucination. But as I approached their Precious Sound System, the “host” bolted in front of me, blocking my access. He asked me why I was there.
I said, “I’m turning your $#%# music off. That’s what.”
I guess, for some of them, this was all too reminiscent of their teen years, when someone’s mother or father would stomp into the rec room and tell them to turn down the stereo -- altlhough I am sure their mother didn’t use the kind of language I used. Or maybe they were afraid I had a sledge hammer tucked away in the robe and I’d smash their equalizer. Whatever. There were some hasty apologies, some snickers, but -- oh, bliss! -- someone flipped a dial or turned off the nuclear reactor that must have been required to power that sucker -- whatever. The music finally stopped.
Silence. Waves of relief and peace flooded through me. Finally. Finally. Things were right with the universe.
I was turning to leave when one of them, I think the ecstasy dealer, stepped in front of me. “Hey, he said, “You can’t just go walking into my house like that.”
“Well, I just did,” I said.
“It’s illegal,” he stepped close to me, angry. He was wearing tinted sunglasses that he’d pushed to the top of his head, so he could scare me by glaring at me. I glared right back.
“So go ahead. Call the cops.” I folded my arms over my chest -- hoping he actually would. I could see a few guests nervously glance at the jumble of drug paraphernalia on the coffee table. My host was definitely not the brightest bulb on the Christmas tree.
“You don’t have any right to walk in here,” he growled.
Oooh. You’ve heard that from your teens, haven’t you? “You have no right...” Nothing sets me, as a parent, off on a diatribe more than when a completely irresponsible, non tax paying, socially dependent starts telling me about their rights.
So, I started ranting.
“You didn’t listen when we asked. You didn’t pay attention to the cops. You didn’t pay attention to the landlord. So now maybe you’ll pay attention to an old bag in a bathrobe.”
Some of his friends started to laugh. Mr Christmas Bulb’s eyes narrowed -- dangerously. He didn’t like feeling ridiculed. I was pretty sure he wanted to deck me, in spite of the supposedly benign effects of ecstasy.
So this is it, I thought. This is when I get creamed in the head with a Smirnoff bottle and my children are orphaned. So be it. It will be worth it. I stood my ground, and narrowed my eyes even more than he had.
Fortunately, his friends shuffled forward between us. “Just leave, now, please,” one begged. “We’re moving out at the end of the month.”
“Good!” I snarled.
I left. True to their word, the Neighbours From Hell were gone by the end of the month. Strangely, they did not have a house breaking party when they moved. Perhaps this is because they’d already broken up quite a bit of the house already. But I like to think that they were afraid of me. The Old Bag in the Bathrobe.
And this year, I can the trills of the birds, the crickets rumbling in the woods, and my children clacking away on MSN when they are supposed to be doing homework.
Once again, spring is beautiful.
Namaste.