won't you be my neighbor?

i have noticed, living in our building, that although most of the time i love our little place, there are a few exceptions to the rule. perhaps better said, a twinge of bitterness with the sweet goodness of this abode.

conveniently, there is a flight of concrete stairs just next to our front door that leads both down to the garage, where my car (again, quite conveniently) has the closest spot to said stairway. it also leads up to the floors and tenants above us. if executed correctly, one could theoretically lollop down the stairs, using the majority of one's weight at the landing of each lolloping step, and create a wondrous clattering to wake the dead. or in this case, us.

as it turns out, i have discovered in my time at home, that at approximately 8:45 ~ ish, some mysterious 7 or so very large people (whom i've shockingly never seen getting the mail or parking their cars) seem to simultaneously realize that they are tardy for their next To Do in life and promptly don there footwear, which i suspect looks an awful lot like this:





and proceed to lead the charge down the stairs. inevitably, one of them always seems to fall, and unfortunately for me, it always seems to be the one wearing their chain-mail with their go-go boots that day.

however, this beats the days where one of our third floor neighbors seems to decide it's time to take the fridge for a walk and use our stairwell to get to the outside where fridge-y can go tinkles.

i suppose, though, if this is all there is that i have to complain about, then we really have it quite good. i have had my fair share of much worse neighbors so really this is nothing to poo-poo. better the Clog Masters 3000 than the Frat Boys That Siphon Your Gas Into Their Beer Keg If You Park On The Street Overnight.

maybe i could brighten their day next time by blasting some Oompa music when the parade begins. it might help Helga's coordination at the very least...