Loathe Thy Neighbor

I've always gotten on well with the neighbor upstairs - he's very charming and funny and he's a cop, which is always a useful connection to have in Chicago. Plus, he's sMOkin' hot. I won't tell you there weren't occasional naughty thoughts involving shiny silver handcuffs. But lately any and all fantasies about Hot Cop Neighbor have been of the "lashing him to a tree in the backyard, smearing him with peanut butter and then letting the squirrels have their way with him" variety.

Recently he got married. I think that's swell. Laundry Hog Roommate moved out (yay!) and the lovely new wife moved in. But it soon became clear that she had some conditions before she agreed to share residency. Namely, a gut rehab of their apartment.

So for the past month I have endured constant hammering, sawing, sanding, pounding, a giant section of my dining room wall torn out and never repaired, and just the other day, a buzzsaw that started up at 7:45 AM. On a SUNDAY. ON MY BIRTHDAY.

Also there is a dog who enjoys a hobby called Barking One's Head Off Every Damn Second, and the impending arrival of Hot Cop Jr., whose nursery is directly above my bed and who, I expect, will join the dog in a lovely barking and screaming duet that should last for approximately the next two years. Living in a box under the Kennedy Expressway would be more peaceful.

Complaining is out of the question, however. No current lease + the lowest rent in the neighborhood + free heat = GRIN AND BEAR IT.

And quietly sell stuff from their storage room on Craigslist.