Home sweet home...

I have always wanted to live in a Pottery Barn catalog. The problem is, I'm always drawn to older homes that are "eclectic" and "have character". Oh, how strange that the bathroom sink is in the kitchen and there is a random door that leads nowhere, but look at that 1930's crown molding!! It's been a constant struggle to find a happy medium, until now. I recently moved for what is hopefully the last time for many years. I got out from under my previous landlord, who I am fairly certain has narcissistic personality disorder/bi-polar disorder (thank you web m.d.) and is clearly not diligent about taking medication for either. The weirdness began when I moved in a year ago and steadily escalated until he professed his love for me 4 months ago. Ick. As a Cancer and a woman, it's crucial for me to feel safe and comfortable in my home, something I never achieved living there. Now I have a cozy little cottage, tucked away in the trees, where I feel so protected I rarely want to leave. The best part about it, is not having neighbors on either side with nothing but poorly insulated, paper-thin walls separating us.

I've long believed that apartment dwellers know far too much about their neighbors' lives, often not by choice. I'll never forget a place I lived in years ago... It was a smaller rental house tucked between 2 larger homes owned by some middle-aged couples. It was on a quiet, side street near the mountains, so we got our share of wildlife in the yard from time to time-skunks, raccoons, the occasional fox. One night, however, I was lying in bed on the edge of unconsciousness, when an unfamiliar noise outside my window startled me into lucidity. I listened carefully--it was close by. It sounded like an angry bear stalking a frightened bunny. My heart raced and I strained to hear which way they were headed. When I finally got out of bed and peered cautiously out my window, I realized it was neither a rabbit nor a bear. It was my middle-aged neighbors having something resembling sex, very loudly, with their windows wide-open.

Then there were the hipster kids that lived below me at my next place. Now, I am a night-owl and as such, I try to be quiet and respectful of the fact that my neighbors often aren't. These kids enjoyed having "band practice" at 3 a.m., and when I say "band practice", I mean they would sit around with their hipster friends sampling old Atari and Nintendo music over guitar and keyboard tracks. I think I even heard a kazoo once. Ear plugs only muffled the nonsense and if I were a more confrontational person, I would have gone downstairs, slapped the clove cigarettes out of their mouths and smashed their Casio keyboard into a tree. Instead I suffered in silence.

Most recently, I lived in the middle apartment of a tri-plex. On one side, was a 20-something hippy dude who smoked copious amounts of weed, played excessively loud music and had a girlfriend who I feel confident was faking her orgasms. On the other side, was a quiet 30-something couple who likely hated me for similar reasons. I often wondered if, when I ran into them at the mailbox, they were secretly judging me for listening to nothing but Kelly Clarkson for 3 days straight. Then I realized I didn't care; Ms. Clarkson has the voice of an angel. It soothes me and I've had a rough year.