My downstairs neighbor makes me crazy. Crazy I tell you.
When Dave and I moved to San Diego, our looking-for-a-place occurred over the course of two days on a short weekend just weeks before the wedding and the actual move. Not an ideal situation. For me. Because I'm crazy about everything. Light. Color. Sound. Room flow. Window view. Ceiling height. You name it.
But ultimately, decisions like these are made based on my intuition. I like to wait. I'll see 25 places, doesn't matter, until it "feels right."
But we didn't have time for this potentially lengthy process. We had two days. So we saw this place, liked it better than the rest, and signed a one-year lease.
So here we are.
Don't get me wrong, the apartment is absolutely gorgeous. It's big--with three rooms and nine foot ceilings. It boasts an automatic gas fireplace, Roman tub, a balcony, washer/dryer, and a garage. We are unquestionably blessed, more than likely spoiled.
But, and there is a but, my downstairs neighbor drives me crazy.
Apparently, unknown to us, we moved to an area in San Diego very well-known for its abundant Asian population. We slowly learned of our diverse surroundings over the course of our first few weeks. For example, a San Diegan asks where we live. We reply. They pause and remark "lots of Asians there." Or my uncle who candidly replied, "Oh, you live in Little Manila?"
As we perused the bookstore, attended yoga class, and drove past the seafood markets, we noticed that yes indeed, we were always the minority. But mostly it hit home when, at the nearby multi-plex movie theater, we noticed egg rolls advertised right next to buttered popcorn.
But whoopie, we don't care. If you're going to live as a minority among a people, why not asians? Lovely and quiet, in my neighborhood, they tend to their gardens and walk their floppy dogs like anyone else.
Yet...
Flashback to the first time we saw the place months ago...
We walk into an apartment with the leasing agent. Upon entering, I am hit with a thick and sour smell, like meat and spicy sauce bubbling for hours. And the origin is unmistakable. I say to the leasing agent half-jokingly, “It smells like Chinese food in here.” Instead of light-hearted laughter as I expected, she looks down and mumbles half-heartedly as if trying to be thoughtful, “Hmmm…we’ll have to air it out.” I wondered if I was offensive.
Next, we traverse the complex to our future apartment. Thinking the last apartment was a freak anomaly, I am surprised to be assaulted with a strikingly similar smell upon entering the apartment. This time I kept my mouth shut. However, I noticed the leasing agent breathing purposefully through her mouth, trying to keep a poker face.
And so, I can't say I wasn't warned. But I didn't have time for this. Like I said, the apartment = wonderful, so we signed. I figured it was due to the apartment being empty and unaired. The fact that both apartments were two acrid-smelling abodes? I chaulked it up to coincidence.
I sometimes wish I hadn't. Like in the mornings, around 8 a.m., she cooks some form of meat. Is it pork? It's sour and suffocating. It makes me gag. It's the first thing I smell. It smells thick and dead and so f#$%ing gross. I yell at the open window, "Turn on your fan!" I can't sleep. Why would anyone want foul pork in the a.m.? I think about this and get angry.
I get up. To counteract the smell, I open all the windows and turn on all the fans. I even bought a Costco-sized tub of cookie dough. When I first moved in, I baked a sheet of cookies a day just to fill the air with sweetness again. I gained five pounds.
My coworker, who brings in fried spring rolls for snack during break, says wistfully while chewing a juicy mouthful, "Oh the food smells bad, but it's deliccciouss." I want to punch him.
When she's cooking,, the dank bubbling smell consumes my entire apartment. I imagine it has seeped into every fibrous thread of the carpet. It creeps up the walls, sullies the paint. It cuddles into my furniture. Wraps itself around my bedsheets. Perfumes my hair. Offends the cats.
I try to picture what she's cooking down there and my imagination runs wild. I imagine her crouched over a thick black pot, tossing in various meats into some thick red sauce. She peels skin off the hoof of a pig. She deep-frys soggy vegetables for acidic soup. She serves chunks of mystery meat on a platter for breakfast. She doesn't open the windows as her sour dinner concoction boils all day.
And so, like I said, my downstairs neighbor is driving me crazy. Up the wall. So much that I want to move from this lush canyon valley. It's beauty tainted by noodles and pork.
(Disclaimer: Do not get me wrong. I love my food from the east as much as the next person. I just don't want to live as its kitchen vent fan.)
5 comments:
As Paul Simon says, One man's ceiling is another man's floor so.... be sure to disco dance and do jumping jacks and have riotous loud sex at hours anyone would/should be sleeping.... I mean fair is fair. Right?If they can upset you with odd food odors then you guys can pretend that you are practicing for Cirque du Soleil!
I only suggest, I never sell.
Thats a very good suggestion and I am going to start training on the proper use of power tools such as jack hammers, chain saws, and grinders. Its a new class I'm taking through DeVry's online program.
I totally could not help but think this during your rant because it SO hit home for me. Let me re-write your ending.
I sometimes wish I hadn't. Like in the mornings, around 8 a.m., she smokes some form of cigarette. Is it bad? It's powerful and suffocating. It makes me gag. It's the first thing I smell. It smells thick and ashy and so f#$%ing gross. I scream in my head, "Go outside!" I can't sleep. Why would anyone want to smoke in the a.m.? I think about this and get angry.
I get up. To counteract the smell, I open all the windows and turn on all the fans. I've even used a product called Ozone, which is supposed to counteract the smell but instead has an intense acrid sweet flavor that claws its way into your nostrils. I don't know which is worse.
My coworkers, who take 15 minute smoke breaks in what seems like, every 15 minutes, say wistfully while puffing down pure hate, "Oh I know it'll kill me, but I don't give two shits about you." I want to punch them.
When my family smokes, in the mornings and in the evenings, the dank persistant smell consumes my entire living space. I imagine it has seeped into every fibrous thread of the carpet. It creeps up the walls, sullies the paint. It cuddles into my furniture. Wraps itself around my bedsheets. It looms in the air like the mist in some spooky forest out of a halloween tale. It offends me.
I try to picture what it's like and my imagination runs wild. I imagine that the fiery tip of the cigarette that gets that burst of light when the smoker sucks oxygen through it, is actually happening on their insides too. With each inhale their lungs smolder with that black/grey ash singed with fire around the edges. Smoke then engulfs the lung, suffocating life. Then they blow a smoke-ring. Tee-hee! Everything is dandy!
And so, like I said, the smell of smoke drives me crazy. Up the wall. So much that there are times I am on the verge of ...Aargh! Enough of that. It's worthless.
D - I think Cole has a subtle message for you and smoking! Subtle!
COLE: LOL, oh my gawd, I'm still laughing RIGHT NOW, seriously so f'ing funny!!!!! cole, ur the sh**. lol lol lol. i can't stop laughing. best new ending EVER. sooooo, tell me how you REALLY feel tho? ;-)
Erica: his comment couldn't be for me since I'm a NON SMOKER ;-) however, i'm sure in my days as a smoker, I encited this kind of anger in him. hmmmm....cole, i love you you know that right?!
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