Squeezebox

Good lord, neighbors. Again? I swear I want to go to bed early one night/wake up late one morning without having to listen to a rendition of "Squeezebox" by the Who played solely on bedsprings.

No, all I want for Christmas is sound-proofing

Up on the housetop, squeak, squeak, squeak.

It's almost Christmas, so what better time than now to discuss the neighbors' boinking again?

Last night, the eve of Christmas Eve, my neighbors were in exceptional form, at least if the incessant and prolonged (as in more than five minutes) squeaking of the bed may be considered any indication of quality. I was just about to turn in myself, but then, upon hearing the tell-tale tattoo of love's labors, decided to return to my TV set and enjoy Meredith Baxter Birney shooting her lover in the head for the holidays on the Lifetime Network.

Sorry . . . my rich fantasy life at play . . . the movie had far less gunplay than that. Dammit.

Speaking of rich fantasy lives, I do have quite a wealthy one, but it is in no way augmented,  encouraged, or satisfied by the shenanigans above my head. First of all, if I were interested in anyone in this pairing, it would me the male, uh, member, and he is very much a silent partner in this entanglement, saving all of his vocalizing for daytime hours when he's yelling at the kids.

Plus he is not my type--and pretty much everyone is my type--but then again, I, a cranky, bald, 50-year-old who has apparently become a very light sleeper, is probably not his type either.

But there are other reasons for me not to be engaged by the pairing upstairs.

Let's talk technique for a moment: I am spared any evidence of foreplay. Or perhaps there just is none? I cannot discern. Nor am I particularly keen to, I hasten to add. But the discovery of another man who lacks a sense of fun and foreplay always producing a sense of disappointment and mourning in my heart.

To ensure marital happiness, I might play Secret Santa and place a coupon for 50% off at Adam and Eve or some other online "marital aids" shoppers' paradise. But, let's face it: I don't want to foster more marital happiness. I'm not sure my delicate nature can handle that.

Plus I fear that if a vibrator became involved in the lusty labors, it would sound like a hydraulic jackhammer blasting through my ceiling.

So no.

But I digress . . .

Back to technique. Lack of a proper appetizer aside, we move on to the main course, which consists of some very rapid-fire bed-squeaking, intensely accomplished (I'll grant you that, dear couple) for five to ten minutes. This is occasionally accompanied by additional acoustical warbling in the contralto range, but nothing too excessive or even interesting. There are children and pets sleeping nearby, after all. Not to mention wide-awake neighbors.

After about five to ten minutes of beat-the-clock squeaking and then everything comes . . . to an abrupt and quiet end, which is accomplished (if one could label it that) without warning or arpeggio. This sudden end is immediately followed by the shower being turned on in the bathroom. After a few minutes of showering, both parties are reunited in the marriage bed, where, depending on the hour, the machine gun-like ratatatat of bed-squeaking may or may not resume.

The only persons in our world who must get a good night's rest are children and pets because none of those creatures ever stirs when the 'rents get freaky upstairs. No, all is calm, all is bright, except directly above my head. The sound-proofing between rooms is obviously exceptional. Between floors? Not so much.

I'm dreading tonight, Christmas Eve, and, good god no, New Year's Even is just around the corner.

Not sure sound-proofing will fit in a stocking, Santa, but new earplugs or noise-canceling headphones most definitely will.

Rough housing, indeed

Lessons learned from the neighbors redux:

You, too, can reenact a WWE smackdown event in the comfort of your own bedroom(s), living room, dining room, bathroom, etc.

Oh, I *wish* there was some real rumbling going on. I would so call the cops or the landlord and have the whole bunch carted off to Attica circa 1970.

But alas, no, it's just "rough-housing." Not horseplay, thank you, Jesus.

Has there ever been a more inadvertently appropriate descriptive term? Housing doesn't get much rougher than this.

T minus 1 day and counting until I get the chance to view my (fingers crossed) new apartment . . .

Parenthood isn't for sissies

Which is yet another thing I have learned from the neighbors: This sissy most definitely does not want to have children. I'm not even keen on having a pet at this point.

It's never really even crossed my mind actually, except only fleetingly after my father passed away, when I realized that my siblings and I--straight, gay, married, single--had forgotten to have children.

Our parents didn't remind us either, perhaps because they figured that they'd raised four absolutely sane, intelligent, gorgeous, and perfect in every way children, why tempt fate? Besides, it would just be unfair to expect the next generation to be as exemplary as mine. Too, too cruel.

But living downstairs from the terrible twosome (yes, it's been confirmed, there are two of the little abominations screaming, crying, and running above me as we speak) has sealed the deal, shut off the supply line, evaporated the milk, curdled the cream, forced the hens to quit laying, and made the bulls suddenly disinterested in stampeding. So to speak.

Now, in addition to scouting out new digs (and the sooner the better I might add), I spend my free time pondering what technology and distribution mechanisms would be involved in developing the world's first "morning before" pill, a birth control medication so retroactive that even parents of hate-filled, lazy teenagers and ungrateful, malcontented, too-much-analysis-for-their-own-good young adults would be willing to pay millions to score.

I wouldn't necessarily stop them, of course, but my target is the five-and-under market. And at the moment, specifically two members of the five-and-under set.

I think I know what inspired Squeaky Fromme's name (not to mention her claim to fame)

Lessons learned from the neighbors # . . . oh hell, I've lost count.

I would give anything if my upstairs neighbors, who seem to be unable to go one solitary night without screwing, would buy a damn bed that does not squeak.

Every evening, between 9:30 and 10:30, it's the same routine. And if I get no direct or indirect benefit from it (and trust me, I don't), then I don't want to have to listen to it every night.

I'm thinking they also need to take their child in for a hearing check, 'cause if the kid can sleep through this every night, he's stone-cold deaf.

Which, come to think of it, might explain why he's the world's noisiest child: He just can't hear what a little floor-stomping, wall-pounding, crying, screaming unholy terror he is.

That or he's acting out some subconsciously repressed rage over hearing Daddy bang Mommy every freakin' night.

* * *

Better times may be just around the corner. I have a lead on a new apartment, a townhouse, an end unit, no less, with lots of room and lots of privacy, and no upstairs neighbors. Fingers and toes, muffins, fingers and toes.

But then what will I have to bitch about?

Arrivederci, Verona!

Lessons learned from the neighbors #3.

After a wet, cold weekend, housebound on the ground floor of my building with my neighbors and their apparent preschool-cum-menagerie housebound on the upper floor, I have decided that I would really like to find a new apartment. Sooner rather than later. Hopefully before the real winter weather sets in, which, given that it's Pittsburgh, will no doubt be in another week-and-a-half.

Nevertheless, nothing is so bad in my little corner of the world as to make me want to take a place in bullet-ridden Verona, no matter how charming it otherwise might be.

Guten tag, Aspinwall.

Is it me, Pittsburgh, or are there shoot-outs and stand-offs on almost a weekly basis these days? Is this a local thing, like the Steelers and halushki and slowing down in tunnels? 'Cause, really, Pittsburgh, the fact that everybody insists on dressing like bumblebees on game days is enough for a gentle soul to contend with.