Back in the bad ol' days, before my name was ever on a lease or my feet had ever walked a college campus, I was a bit of a stoner. A wastrel, you could say. Not someone who indulged daily or who lazed about on a stained sofa, giggling stupidly at the TV screen while cramming munchies into my slacker mouth, but someone who was known to partake when the occasion arose.
Those days are so far gone. My stoner life ended 27 years ago, and, while it was certainly fun (or at least funny), I don't miss it a bit. Chemically-induced stupidity is only entertaining for a while before it either becomes second nature or lands your ass in jail. Neither of those were on my top ten list, you know?
So, imagine my surprise when, yesterday afternoon, I find an envelope tucked in my door. From our apartment complex property manager, no less. The letter enclosed came exactly one nut hair shy of openly accusing us of smoking pot in our apartment.
Us. Smoking pot. If you knew us, even a little, you'd know just how utterly ridiculous the idea is. Our faces positively ache with how clean our noses are, and not only do we not smoke weed, we don't hang out with people who smoke weed. The strongest substance in this house, since the Vicodin for my back poofed without a trace last month (and wasn't replaced--I haven't taken anything stronger than Advil for the back in a year) is--well, Advil. Oh, and Nyquil. That pretty much covers our cache of "hard-core drugs" in the place. I know, how boringly domestic of us.
Anyway, letter. I call the office, no one home. I leave a scathing message that I delete before "making permanent." Glad I did. Brushed my teeth, changed out of the super-baggy sweats, and headed to the office. No one there. Wound up waiting a half-hour for the manager to return. I was sure the report had come from the loud-assed, wife-beating drunkards who just moved in behind us, but no. It turns out it was a general "I smelled pot smoke in my bathroom" complaint that, according to the manager, did not come from the loud-assed, wife-beating drunkards who just moved in behind us. In fact, it turns out she handed out multiple copies of the letter--one to each unit that in any way shares a border/wall/floor with the bathroom in question. It was a friendly meeting, throughout which I stressed that we do not smoke pot, we do not entertain folks who smoke pot, and that our goal in apartment life is to be invisible. We want to be the folks known as "The nice, friendly, quiet folks in 101 who don't make trouble and always pay their rent on time."
While I can laugh now, I'd be lying if I said that the letter didn't initially knock the wind out of me. See, on the 3rd of July, those loud-assed, wife-beating drunkards had a heck of a party. One that became increasingly loud until, at quarter to midnight or so, it hit an unbearable pitch of angry shouting and wrenching sobs to accompany the blaring music. Understand, the town we live in has a 10 pm noise ordinance. Rather than call the landlord or call the police, I rapped on the wall. Not hard, not with plaster-cracking force, just a light rap. The noise stopped immediately. I hopped in the tub, and, about ten minutes later, was stunned when someone began banging and kicking on our front door. Know that this is a quiet complex, stuff like that doesn't happen. I crept to the bathroom door and opened it, and could hear the very same drunkards yelling and laughing ON MY DOORSTEP.
I was scared to death. But, being the peace-loving girl I am, I didn't call the cops. I thought, "Okay, fine, you got yours, we're even, now it stops." When the letter turned up, I felt certain it was the result of a "spite" tip. You know, your neighbors piss you off so you narc them out on a fabricated drug complaint? But the manager insists that's not the case.
I sure hope not. I don't need that kind of drama in my life. Somewhere along the line, I got old. I grew up and discovered that peace and quiet beats out drama any day.
Those days are so far gone. My stoner life ended 27 years ago, and, while it was certainly fun (or at least funny), I don't miss it a bit. Chemically-induced stupidity is only entertaining for a while before it either becomes second nature or lands your ass in jail. Neither of those were on my top ten list, you know?
So, imagine my surprise when, yesterday afternoon, I find an envelope tucked in my door. From our apartment complex property manager, no less. The letter enclosed came exactly one nut hair shy of openly accusing us of smoking pot in our apartment.
Us. Smoking pot. If you knew us, even a little, you'd know just how utterly ridiculous the idea is. Our faces positively ache with how clean our noses are, and not only do we not smoke weed, we don't hang out with people who smoke weed. The strongest substance in this house, since the Vicodin for my back poofed without a trace last month (and wasn't replaced--I haven't taken anything stronger than Advil for the back in a year) is--well, Advil. Oh, and Nyquil. That pretty much covers our cache of "hard-core drugs" in the place. I know, how boringly domestic of us.
Anyway, letter. I call the office, no one home. I leave a scathing message that I delete before "making permanent." Glad I did. Brushed my teeth, changed out of the super-baggy sweats, and headed to the office. No one there. Wound up waiting a half-hour for the manager to return. I was sure the report had come from the loud-assed, wife-beating drunkards who just moved in behind us, but no. It turns out it was a general "I smelled pot smoke in my bathroom" complaint that, according to the manager, did not come from the loud-assed, wife-beating drunkards who just moved in behind us. In fact, it turns out she handed out multiple copies of the letter--one to each unit that in any way shares a border/wall/floor with the bathroom in question. It was a friendly meeting, throughout which I stressed that we do not smoke pot, we do not entertain folks who smoke pot, and that our goal in apartment life is to be invisible. We want to be the folks known as "The nice, friendly, quiet folks in 101 who don't make trouble and always pay their rent on time."
While I can laugh now, I'd be lying if I said that the letter didn't initially knock the wind out of me. See, on the 3rd of July, those loud-assed, wife-beating drunkards had a heck of a party. One that became increasingly loud until, at quarter to midnight or so, it hit an unbearable pitch of angry shouting and wrenching sobs to accompany the blaring music. Understand, the town we live in has a 10 pm noise ordinance. Rather than call the landlord or call the police, I rapped on the wall. Not hard, not with plaster-cracking force, just a light rap. The noise stopped immediately. I hopped in the tub, and, about ten minutes later, was stunned when someone began banging and kicking on our front door. Know that this is a quiet complex, stuff like that doesn't happen. I crept to the bathroom door and opened it, and could hear the very same drunkards yelling and laughing ON MY DOORSTEP.
I was scared to death. But, being the peace-loving girl I am, I didn't call the cops. I thought, "Okay, fine, you got yours, we're even, now it stops." When the letter turned up, I felt certain it was the result of a "spite" tip. You know, your neighbors piss you off so you narc them out on a fabricated drug complaint? But the manager insists that's not the case.
I sure hope not. I don't need that kind of drama in my life. Somewhere along the line, I got old. I grew up and discovered that peace and quiet beats out drama any day.
So you gobble down the vicodin as fast as you can, but you denounce pot as if it were the equivalent of heroin or crack?
ReplyDeleteAfter some thought, I've decided to allow your accusation concerning my drug use to stand on its own "merit," sans any editorial contribution on my part. Well, except this--read for comprehension, Gus, and don't accuse people of being drug addicts just because you don't like their humorous words about weed. You, OF ALL PEOPLE, should know to be wary of such accusations.
ReplyDeleteNice website, btw.