It seemed fitting

My neighbor Walt made sure there was always a calendar on the bulletin board in our laundry room.

He lived in this building for many decades before he died at age 90 in May 2017. Until 2016, he was a good neighbor. Then he got ... well ... inappropriate. Maybe it was the meds he was taking for the variety of conditions that plagued him. I started avoiding him because he creeped me out so badly.

But that's not the measure of the man, is it? Should all of his many years on earth be judged based on one? So I made a small gesture in his memory. I hung one of the free calendars I received this year, right there on the bulletin board in our laundry room.

Rest in peace, Walt.

No. Just no.

We had a condo association meeting last night. Everyone but me had complaints and was very angry about something.

Especially my downstairs neighbor Sally. She moved into Crazy Old Neighbor's unit a few years ago. In her 40s, she's deaf and slightly disabled due to a stroke. Earlier last week, when I was picking up my mail, she asked me if I'd sit with her at the meeting and type so that she could see what's being said. I said "sure." Why not? I type for a living. I'm very fast, and it seemed like a nice, neighborly thing to do.

So I'm sitting with Sally, my fingers flying over the keyboard, writing things like, "Kelli wants to know why the building isn't FHA approved anymore" and "Jackie wants to know if the security cameras are working."

Mr. B., an elderly condo owner with a huge sense of entitlement, is on the condo board. He has responsibility for things like the annual budget, establishing priorities for repairs, dealing with the insurance company, etc. He rolled in without a single piece of paper. Nothing to write on, no notes from the last meeting. Just his old self.

As the other owners were getting angrier and angrier at him and the management company for everything that's wrong, he had nothing to say. Neither did Jennifer, the other board member in attendance. (The third board member, Angela, didn't even show up.)

Twice, during the meeting, when someone asked Mr. B. if the board was going to issue minutes of this meeting to all the (angry) condo owners, he indicated that I would do it since I was taking it all down.

"No," I said. Twice. "I'm doing this as a favor to Sally so she understands what's being said. This isn't for anyone but Sally."

The third time when he indicated that I would publish my "Sally notes" to the group, I said, "NO! I'm running out of ways to say it: NO!"

Mr. B. looked all faux hurt, but I ain't buying. I'm a condo owner, not a board member. He's supposed to be looking out for us, serving us, not the other way around. Secondly, I'm not his administrative assistant and it's insulting that he thinks because of his age he can boss me around.

Major Cause for Concern

Mr. R. lives across the hall and is on my mind this morning. He thought he was having a heart attack last night and was taken away by the local fire department. I offered to go to the hospital with his wife and sit with her, but she said no, "No use in both of us worrying." I wish I'd insisted. She looked so tiny and vulnerable as she got into her car.

His wife stopped by this morning with good news. It wasn't a heart attack -- "just afib," she said. It was scary, but he'll be fine. I'm so grateful. And she'll be so happy in a day or so when he comes home.

Mr. R. is such a nice man. Big, courtly, with a very deep voice. I suppose some might find him intimidating. I know Crazy Old Neighbor did. During our bizarre neighbor's reign of terror, he used to offer to accompany me when I did laundry, just so I'd feel safe. I always did feel safe -- I never thought Crazy Old Neighbor would hurt me -- but I loved Mr. R. for the chivalrous gesture.

Singing the blues

I'm in a slump. Nothing BIG is wrong ... but everything small is. Everything! From the melon on my chicken and fruit salad (I HATE melons) to TCM wasting a day of Summer of the Stars on Johnny Weismuller.

Maybe I feel this way because of yesterday's full moon. Maybe it's that I'm deprived of precious alone time now that I share an office with three other people.

Whatever is causing it, I have been here before. I know I must not take it all too seriously because it'll pass. It will!

I think it started with some friction at work. The first incident left me feeling vulnerable and frustrated because it's one of those situations where I have responsibility and no authority. Then the second one was a run-in with my boss. He's very confidently going down the wrong path -- wrong for our client, but fun for us, the creatives. I guess my lack of enthusiasm registered on my face because he snarkily snapped, "You can make all the faces you want, but it's what we should be doing." I was very proud of how I responded with nothing but business-related reasons, when I wanted to say, "And you're only being so dismissive because you know I'm right." He told me the next day, "I know we both think we're right, but I'm not budging." I tried to get taken off the project, but no, I'm stuck doing something I don't believe in. So that's adding to my agita.


Then there was being disrupted as soon as I got out of the shower Thursday, frightened by an aggressive banging on my front door. I peered through he peephole and saw a man in a familiar deep blue uniform and a badge. What the fuck? Who's sick or dead? Who needs help?

The officer on the other side wanted to know about my across the hall neighbor, a man I have never seen. The officer wanted to know when/if I saw anyone come in or out. Because I remember all the drama and danger surrounding Crazy Old Neighbor, two years ago this time, I was eager to help. I told him the only person I remember coming to see my across-the hall-neighbor was a young woman who pounded on my door ("aggressively, like you did," I said) who wanted to know where he was, and where did he get his doormat. I told her, "You don't know how much I don't care about that doormat," I responded, annoyed, and she told me it had been hers in the home they shared and he stole it. I told the officer she walked off with it.

He asked me if she was Hispanic and I said I didn't know. "Who notices that sort of thing?" I asked. "She wasn't Swedish and she wasn't African-American, but beyond that, I don't know."

Then he asked me how long I lived here in town, checking out my attire (bathrobe, no makeup, bare feet) he wanted to know if I was getting ready for work, and did I work downtown. Hey ... These are not cop questions …

I answered some but not all and turned it back around to my neighbor. And the cop who, it dawned on me, never said he was a cop. And don't they usually go on calls like this in pairs? Where's his partner?

Turns out he is a cop but not on police business. He was acting as a village "task force process server," and was there to let my across-the-hall neighbor know he's being sued for child support. The other questions? He wants to go out with me because I'm "so funny." Really, he doesn't meet a lot of women who seem "as much fun" as me.

I was so mad! How dare he frighten me like that! And when I mentioned that I thought he was impersonating an officer to get a date, he smiled and said he never told me he was a cop. He gave me a piece of paper with his name on it (Derrick) and made me promise to call.

Oh well. I'm trying to find the pony in this shitty story, so I'm enjoying the fact that a (not unattractive) man will ask me out, even when I'm all fat and pimply and have no makeup on.

30 Days of Honesty -- Playing Catch Up Again

I didn't post this yesterday because I didn't want to take away from yesterday's peaceful Blogblast. But today I'm honestly trying to come up to date on this challenge:

Day 4 :: Something you have to forgive someone for. There are those who feel it's time for me to let Steve Bartman off the hook, but the furthest I'm willing to go is to stop calling him "Fucking Steve Bartman." Instead I think it would be better for me to forgive Crazy Old Neighbor once and for all. He continues to take up too much space in my head. This is going to be a long process, though, since neither prayer nor therapy seems to have brought me closer.

Day 5 :: Something you hope to do in your life. Remember how Wilbur eulogized Charlotte? "It is not often that someone comes along who is a true friend and a good writer. Charlotte was both." If someone can say that of me some day, I will have enjoyed a life well lived.

Now where did this come from?

I'm still blue about Crazy Old Neighbor. These are such complicated feelings -- being confronted with such genuine insanity is scary, and I'm angry because our laundry room is still messed up and much of his graffiti still remains, and I'm sad because it was such a waste of a life, and I feel guilty that I was an audience to his self-destruction instead of a help to his healing. It's been nearly two months and I'm having a hard time shaking it.

I've discussed it with both my shrink and my oldest friend. My shrink says that while just "letting it go" has always been very hard for me, it's something I have to do because holding on to this serves no purpose. My oldest friend says that, when she finds herself fixating on something upsetting, she conjures up some Barry Manilow tune.

At first I mocked her technique, but my distraction tactic is just as cheesey. As I pass Crazy Old Neighbor's scratches, gouges and paint splatters, I think of the theme from Who's the Boss? I have no idea why this is what popped into my mind, but it did and I'm sticking with it. It's lighthearted, if you don't dwell on the tragic irony of the lyrics.

"The choice is up to you, my friend." As I write this post, my cat Reynaldo is at my side for his evening snuggle. Old sitcoms, affectionate kitties, the new PEOPLE with William and Kate on the cover ... There are dozens of things every day that can make you happy if you let them. Every day gives us the opportunity for "a brand new life." Being unable to see that is what made Crazy Old Neighbor such a pathetic bastard.

More about Crazy Old Neighbor

$10,000. That's the princely sum that Crazy Old Neighbor killed himself over.

According to the note he left, he believed he was being hounded and blamed by us for the $3,000 he owes the condo association board (though not for the thousands in destruction of property, which he denied doing). He still owes his bank $7,000 for his 1 BR unit on the third floor. He left his condo and his car to relatives, but their lawyers contacted our lawyers to say that since they, too, were "estranged" from him and involved in litigation, they're not going to take possession of his stuff as quickly as we'd like.

I suppose it doesn't matter, really, as long as they aren't foreclosed upon and pay his assessments (both current and past-due).

I think about him constantly. The last time I saw him -- the Thursday before Labor Day -- I actually crossed the street to avoid making eye contact with him. Now he's dead.

I know he either would have ignored me or called me a "bitch" again, and I just didn't feel like dealing with it that day. But I still feel guilty. He was my neighbor and clearly he was in a lot of distress and that wasn't nice of me.

And then I'm mad at him anew. Because, like the damage to the laundry room he did that's yet to be repaired, he manages to get the last word ... over Labor Day, today and for all eternity.

Suicide can be a monstrously selfish act.

Well, that's done

Two hours at the laundromat. Hopefully, by next week the washers in this building will be repaired and this is the last of Crazy Old Neighbor's destructive legacy. It's such a waste of time and quarters! To take some of the sting out of it, I rewarded myself with a hot dog, fries and Dr. Pepper.

A prayer for Crazy Old Neighbor

"Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us."

I thought about him at church today. A lot. I know that with time, my shock and anger will fade and I'll be able to forgive him for all the destruction and hostility, and forgive myself for not being as compassionate as I could have been.

In all, it sucked

This past week, I mean. First Mayor Daley announced he was abandoning us. Then we learned that Crazy Old Neighbor committed suicide. The fire in Boulder came close to my best friend's home. Less personal but still upsetting: the virulent anti-Islam mood in the country.

And 9/11 is always an occasion for sober reflection.

So I did the only sensible thing. I got a mani/pedi and stopped for a margarita on the way back. The world looks better after a mani/pedia and a margarita.

Where is he today?

Crazy Old Neighbor, that is.

A comment on yesterday's post from Vivian has inspired me to actually articulate this tragedy in terms of my personal faith. Of course I'm not contradicting Vivian, I'm just putting my beliefs into words because language is my best friend when I'm trying to work through confusing stuff like this.

Crazy Old Neighbor is in Heaven, I have no doubts about that. Now that he's back with God, he's restored to the person he was when he was at his best. ("Even if," my friend Kathleen said, "that means he'll be 3 years old for eternity.")

There's plenty of evidence of his racism and misogyny. He was certainly hateful of his neighbors. He had no job anymore, his finances were fragile, and he had no family. He could not have been happy in the life he was living.

But even though he wasn't living his life in God's design, he was still God's child. Now that he's back with his Father, I believe Crazy Old Neighbor has finally found the serenity that escaped him in life.

RIP

Crazy Old Neighbor committed suicide. Probably over the long weekend. His body was discovered this evening, when one of his neighbors called the police to complain about the smell. I'm told it was an incredibly foul smell.

I am sorry that his life took such a hateful turn. I am told he was alone, with no friends or family, limited income and lots of money trouble. But I am also sorry that he held our whole building hostage with his destructive impulses.

Even the way he ended his life was selfish.

And yet I feel compassion for how desperate he must have felt.

I say this with all sincerity -- Rest in peace.

The Recession hits a little close to home

Like next door.

My next door neighbors were medical students (or maybe interns). Very unfriendly. Not hostile, but definitely not interested in speaking to anyone (or holding the elevator). They moved out in July. I thought they were renters and their lease was up.

They were owners and they abandoned the property.

That unit has 1BR, mine has 2. But still, I'd hate to be trying to sell now with a foreclosure right next door. Not good for the value of my property, you know?

Neither are the hijinks of Crazy Old Neighbor.

While this makes me unhappy, I'm trying to keep it in perspective. I plan on paying this place off and living here until my niece sells it out from under me and uses to the proceeds to have her drooling aunt institutionalized. Hopefully by then, the economy will have recovered somewhat and the contents of this post will be nothing but a vague memory.

Crazy Old Neighbor is at it again

Put a load of laundry in the washer at 7:00. Went down to the laundry room at 7:45 to move it to the dryer and couldn't. Because someone (Crazy Old Neighbor) unhooked the hose from the sink so the water drained onto the floor, and pulled the washer just far enough away from the wall that it was impossible to open the dryer door. With the floor all wet and slippery, it wasn't easy for me to push the washer back.

Last week Crazy Old Neighbor broke the other washer and dryer. So now this building -- 24 units -- has no laundry facilities.

And tomorrow I have to waste my morning at the washeteria.

Right now, I hate Crazy Old Neighbor.

I Shall Prevail

Every year the USPS sponsors a food drive. This year it's on May 8. It's a fabulously simple and effective idea -- on Saturday morning you put non-perishable food out, labeled for the food drive, and your mail carrier delivers your mail and carries off your contribution.

Except in my building.

My feisty and possibly crazy old neighbor picks through the donations and takes what he wants. He's not needy, he's hostile. In addition to stealing from the poor, he has been known to steal my newspapers and key another neighbor's car.

But this year I believe I have outsmarted him. For every time I go to the grocery store, between now and May 8, I will pick up baby food. So far I have bananas, prunes and oatmeal. It will help the hungry families and it will thwart my nasty old neighbor.

HA!

I think the planet could use an anger management seminar

I was born with a very bad temper. My mother loves to the tell story of a little pre-school Gal who was sentenced to solitary confinement in my bedroom. After a while, when her anger had subsided, Mom came to speak with me calmly and, perhaps, release me from captivity. She couldn't open my bedroom door. I had spent the entire time dragging my mattress, which was bigger than I was, across the room to block the entrance. As mad as she'd been at me, I was (pound for pound) madder at her.

This temper of mine is exhausting and, more often than not, makes bad situations worse. So I work very hard at keeping it under check. I am not always successful, and for that I'm sorry, but I do genuinely try so hard.

Lately I wonder if others, similarly afflicted, try at all.

Just a few examples I've encountered recently --

1) My downstairs neighbor, a peculiar older man who regularly wears shorts and dark glasses, regardless of the weather or where he is, steals sections of my newspaper every morning. Today I caught him. He denied it and started yelling at me about how sick he was of me "constantly" accusing him (he had part of my paper in his leather folder as we spoke). This wasn't "a good offense is the best defense" kinda thing. This was a "spinning out of control" kinda thing. It concerned me, as he's been known to key the cars of people who cross him. I don't have a car, which should make me more brazen, but he's so odd and crazy and mad that I really don't want to deal with him anymore. I reported him to the condo association and invite them to handle it.

2) I went up the stairs to use the restroom at a friend's house recently and could not help noticing something disturbing. The middle bedroom, the one you see first when you reach the top of the staircase, has no door. Her 19-year-old son has taken his temper out on it so many times that it can no longer be repaired, so she replaced it with a sheet on a suspension rod.

3) Yesterday, on the busy street that borders my village, I saw and heard a driver leaning on his horn, really blasting it. He wanted to make one of those coveted right turns on red, and the driver in front of him was waiting for pedestrians to cross. What did Mr. Noisy Pants want the car ahead of him to do, run people over?

I'm not unsympathetic. It really doesn't take a lot to trigger my temper, and it does take work to reign it in. But I do work at it, and these people make me ask (to borrow from Sir Paul): All the angry people, where do they all come from?