Thanks for Rubbing It In

When I received the new issue of New York magazine in the mail yesterday, I took one glance at the cover and felt like it was mocking me. Because "Peace + Quiet" are two things my life has been severely lacking in the past few months, thanks to my upstairs neighbor. As soon as he moved in last spring, he destroyed our peaceful Manhattan oasis (our apartment is in the back of the building, facing out onto a courtyard, and our other neighbors are considerate and blissfully quiet). I know way too much about this man for never having met him. I know he hates his mother (I've heard him screaming at her on the phone). I know his cat's name. I know when he wakes up (he blasts music and/or the TV at 6 in the morning). I know what shows he watches (because I can hear every word). I know what music he listens to (bad, bad '90s techno with lots of thumping bass). Most disturbingly, I know what he sounds like when he has sex (shudder). After we wrote a friendly note requesting he keep it down, the volume got only marginally lower - I think his definition of "quiet" is different from most people's. As a result, we've probably used the Swiffer to bang on the ceiling more frequently than we actually use it to "swiff." We can only hope he doesn't renew his lease, because we'll certainly be here for a while.