7 days since my last post.  On a good note, my kids are healthy and have returned to school.  On the flip side, I am either getting a cold or beginning to suffer from allergies.  Hard to tell which.  Being new to Maine, I’m probably susceptible to “foreign” pollen or something.  But I’m also just plain beat.  Keeping baker’s hours is no picnic.  I used to despise coffee.  Now, DAY 6 of JAVATHON! and I am consuming it with a passion I once reserved solely for booze.  My husband is enjoying the novelty. I am enjoying the bUZZZ.

Yet despite all best efforts to caffeinate myself, I am still almost perpetually tired.  And, unfortunately, a portion of this fatigue is simply beyond my control.  That’s right folks.  I have a problem.  A serious problem called apartment living.  I managed to escape this dreary fate for 8 glorious years, but now I am trapped.  For the next 3 months, or maybe even longer… If someone will not BUY MY HOUSE!!!!! OOHHHH PLEEAASSSSE.  PLEEEEAAASSSSEEEE.  WON’T YOU??? It is soooo PREEEETTTTY and I am asking SOOOooooOOOOO NIICEEEEELLLLLYYYY.

SO. IN SUMMARY.  Sleep cut short by my new employ = GOOD.  Sleep shaved off by my living circumstance = BAD.  We would up and move, but as we’re already strapped w/ 2 mortgages, a boatload of debt, a signed lease, 2 kids in school, pets out the wazoo, yada yada blah blah blah… we’re not going anywhere.  Don’t get me wrong.  I love this apartment.  LOVE IT.  The place is fabulous.  Sunny, spacious, a stone’s throw from school.  Great neighborhood – a little yuppie for my taste, but still. T-rrific.

But living on the 2nd floor of a 3-story house means we have neighbors.  UPSTAIRS neighbors.  Who seem nice and all, but keep completely different hours from us.  We are a family w/ 2 children in school.  They are 2 singles w/ night jobs and/or a penchant for partying.  A sit-com in the making?  Perhaps.  But NOT REALLY FUNNY.  Our neighbors come home late.  MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT late.  Our bedroom is right next to the stairwell; our headboard literally beside it.  My REM sleep is being broken several nights each week – sometimes twice a night.  And when I go to bed close to midnight and have to rise at the crack of dawn to bake, those hours are PRECIOUS.

But all of that — the noisy entrance, clomping up the stairs and door slamming I would take.  Willingly.  If the dude above me would simply stop having sex.  My problem in a nutshell?  His nut sack.  Tackle box.  Wild willy.  His pelvic thrusts worthy of GUINNESS BOOK FAME.  YOU HEARD ME.  My neighbor’s penis is getting on my NERVES.

What people do behind closed doors is their private business and theirs alone.  AT LEAST IN THEORY. Problem is, theory went out the effing window when it moved into a 2-bedroom apt below Sir Humps A. Lott.  Our first morning here we thought we were witnessing a freak earthquake.  I hadn’t heard anything about earthquakes in Maine, but hey, they happen everywhere, right?  WRONG.  That was NO EARTHQUAKE.  That was a taste of things to come.  My husband and I began noticing things – subtle at first, and then downright HARD TO MISS>.  Like when we felt the whole damn house shaking.  When our headboard began whacking itself against the wall.  Our dresser contents began shifting and our door threatened to break off its hinges and go cascading down the hall.  You see, Humpers likes to do the deed every couple days for a whole heaping helping of time.  And since he’s such a night owl, you can guess who’s UP when we’re NOT.  1, 2, 3, 4, 5.  I’m not counting, those are just his hours.  But it’s not consistent.  Oh no.  That would be too easy.  He likes to putz around for a while.  A creak here – a creak there — juuuuuusssst enough to wake you from SOUND SLEEP.  Then, right when you’re about to nod off again – BANG!  BAM BAM BAM BAMMMMMMMMMMM.  Which would be fine, if he would just FINSH THE HELL UP ALREADY.  But no. NO.  That goes on for – who knows how the hell long.  I have lost count.  Meanwhile, I am laying there, TRAPPED beneath my upstairs neighbor, trying to ignore THE WHOLE DAMN ROOM VIBRATING.. it’s unbe-f*cking-lievable.  A woman should be able to retire to bed, make sweet love to her husband, and go to sleep — NOT TO BE AWAKENED BY THE UNTOWARD ADVANCES OF HER UPSTAIRS NEIGHBOR IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT.  I feel like going up there and hosing him down.

But what can I do??  Really?  Not much.  I can joke, but laughter only lasts so long.  We can’t switch rooms w/ our daughters. b/c that’s just plain wrong.  It doesn’t help to sleep on the couch.  Not enough room for me AND my husband, and besides — Humpers damn ass shakes the whole front of the house, couch included.  We can’t up and move.  To break the lease would cost too much money – which we don’t have.  And it would be nearly impossible to find another apt in the school district which would take lease breakers with a zoo.. Seriously.  We are stuck.  My dad suggested slipping the Humpenator a sticky bun laced w/ saltpeter… “That’ll keep him from rising for a while..” But I think that’s cause for legal action.  I cannot imagine trying to have a conversation w/ this person about his sex life.  He can do whatever he wants in his own apartment. SIGH…. For once, I am completely at a loss.