Being on the Bottom

Many of you who know me know I reside in the awesome Californication that is the South Bay. The South Bay is a beautiful little chunk of land that stretches from Santa Monica to San Pedro Bay. Geographically, this area is gorgeous--just what you imagine when you think of California: beaches, palm trees, sunshine, and happy people (mostly). A lot of people really love it here—I’m one of them. However, because of the many people living here, the population is pretty dense. And, like most densely populated areas, the South Bay is home to many apartment dwellers. I’m one of them, and this is my story:

Anywhoo, the apartment I live in is behind the landlord's house. (It's kind of like servants quarters, except I don't do anything for my landlord except pay her exorbitant rent. She, in return, puts a roof over our head. I guess you could call it a win-win.) The apartment we live in contains two residences, ours which is the ground-level unit, and our neighbors in the upstairs unit. So, we don't share common walls, but we do share common ceilings and it is these common ceilings that are driving me uncommonly crazy.

[Now, I'm going to get into too-much-information territory, but not graphic--so if you aren't in to reading about strangers’ strange strangenesses, or people’s gross ickiness, then you should probably stop reading now. Head on over to Nick Jr., I hear they have some wonderful online games, at least that's what Carter tells me.]

Okay, back to the common ceilings. Our neighbors above us moved in about five months ago, and for the first few weeks they were living above us I didn't have any complaints. But after that something awful started happening. The ceiling above my bedroom is the ceiling common with the couple upstairs. And, let's just say the couple upstairs has a very noisy bed. Yes, I know, you're all running away from the computer right now to throw up in some type of waste receptacle. Go ahead, I'll wait for you. Okay, done? Pansies.

I'll stop right there with the innuendos and just cut to it: MY UPSTAIRS NEIGHBORS HAVE SEX LIKE A MILLION TIMES A DAY! Seriously, a million. Okay, they don't really go at it that much, but I swear it's like three times a day I hear their shag wagon rattling away. It's so gross. They freak in the early morning (like four freaking a.m.!), then in the afternoon, and sometimes in the evening. They might do it more than this, but those are the times I have been unfortunate enough to be in my room sleeping, or on the computer, or something and hear their bed-creaking passion. In fact, as I type this, I think I hear the muted rhythm of Olivia Newton John coming from upstairs [let’s get physical, physical...]. Blech!

Here’s my conundrum: Neighbors who have a barking dog can be confronted. Neighbors that play their music too loud can be confronted. Neighbors that play Rock Band at two in the morning…well, you can call the cops on them. Neighbors that get it on A LOT in a noisy, noisy fashion--how do you confront that? It's not as if I can go up there with a wrench, knock on the door and say, "Hey there neighborin-o! I couldn't help but notice you have a bed with some loose joints. Mind if I tighten up those lug nuts for yah?" No. I can't do that. And legally, I can’t send up a plate of cookies laced with sexually repressing antidepressants. I guess there’s some law about poisoning your neighbors or something stupid like that.

So, what am I, as a bottom dwelling apartment resident with unsavory neighbors to do? I’ll tell what I’ll do: I’ll write a blog about it and share my suffering with the world. That's what I’ll do.

Liar, Liar, Parent on Fire

I’ve been thinking a lot about lying the past few days. I haven’t been planning and scheming about who I’m going to lie to, and what I’m going to lie about—I’ve been pondering lying in general, and how it’s sometimes a necessary evil when it comes to being a parent. At least it is for me.

For example, the other day I took Carter for an ice cream cone at McDonald’s. Now, I dread going in to McDonald’s for so many reasons, most of which stem from a short employment stint when I was 15-years-old (but that’s a whole other story). The sounds, the smells, the mauve and yellow décor at McDonald’s, it all causes my stomach to curdle a wee bit upon entry. McDonald’s represents so much that is wrong in the world: grease, gluttony, binge-marketing, cheap plastic toys, senior menus. If Dante had lived in the 21st Century, I’m sure he would have cast Ronald McDonald, Grimmace and The Hamburglar as his assailants in the Inferno. There’s evil in them there costumes.

So, instead of going in to McDonald’s, I went through the drive-through. As we pulled up to order, Carter told me that he wanted to go in to the play place. Hoping to avoid confrontation, I kept it sweet and simple by saying, “Carter, we’re not going in today.” Of course, when you’re dealing with a toddler, nothing is ever simple. Carter responded in a higher, more brain-jabbing pitch, “I wanna play in McDonald’s!” I again answered him simply by saying weren’t going in. Carter, being the rationalist that he is, wasn’t going to accept this for an answer, he needed a reason—a reason that would soothe his troubled toddler soul. So, I lied and told him, “We can’t go in to the play place because it’s closed.”

“Why is it closed?” he asked.
“Um, it’s uh, closed because, because, uh…because a kid peed in there and they have to clean it up. See that sign on the window,” I said pointing to a large poster of an egg McMuffin, “It says, “Play Place Closed for Cleaning.””

Well, that seemed to be a sufficient answer. Of course the play place was closed. The McDonald’s crew was in there sopping up puddles of urine. No tot in their right mind wants to go exploring plastic, urine-soaked catacombs—that’s no fun. Yep, kids are smart creatures. Carter accepted the clean-up answer and even repeated to himself a couple of times, “Somebody peed in the play place.” He’s so freaking adorable!

Anyway, the fact is, I lied to Carter to avoid a confrontation and possible meltdown. Does that make me a bad person? There are other things that could qualify me as bad person, like the years between ages 13-24, but I don’t think my white lies are one of them. I could be way off on this, but I think it’s pretty much standard to lie to your kids. Here are a few more examples of how I have deceived Carter:

• I tell him there are “candy bugs” in his teeth to get him to brush them.
• I’ve told him as soon as it’s dark outside; cartoons on the TV go to sleep.
• When Anthony is away for a few days on business, and Carter asks when he’s coming home, I just say, “In a few hours.”
• I told him that the mouse we saw skittering about at the farmer’s market the other day was Jerry from Tom & Jerry.

I know! I should totally be ashamed, shouldn’t I? I am bringing this child up in a web of filthy, stinking lies! I don’t know how I look myself in the mirror sometimes (not necessarily because of the lies, but because of the crow’s feet around my eyes; I should really start looking in to Botox).

You’re probably wondering, what about Cody and Colton? Does she lie to them too? Well, somewhere between the time the boys were tots, to their current cynical teen years, I started being truthful with them. Maybe too truthful. Without going in to hysterical detail, we’ll just say they know a hell of a lot more about the world than I knew at their age. So, I’m honest with them now about most things, but I lied to them too when they were little. To this day, they probably still think that when they turned two, their bottles took a magical ride on the “Baba Train”, never to return again. And those toys, the toys they wouldn’t put away, they were taken by the ever-notorious, yet oh-so-elusive “Snitcher Snatcher”. It’s no wonder they don’t believe me when I tell them I use to be cool.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, I ask you: Is it really so bad to disperse white lies to your children? I swear I only lie to them when it’s to my benefit—uh, I mean their benefit. Were your parents 100% honest with you when you were a wee one? I’m betting if they were totally truthful, they avoided all manner of “birds and bees” subjects until you were 21 years old, am I right? Don’t lie to me.

Speaking of honesty, I’ll be honest with you; I don’t feel bad about telling these things to my kids. In fact, I think it would be pretty lame to have a parent that was honest all of the time. How boring and unimaginative. Hey, that’s it! If I’m ever confronted by the boys about these fibs, I will just tell them, “I wasn’t being dishonest—I was being imaginative.”

Now, if I could only imagine my way out of the why the laundry, after three days, still hasn’t been folded…