Lola In The City

I walked out of my apartment this morning to see this note on the stairs leading up to Creepy Landlord's apartment: 

"Paul (Creepy Landlord), 

Please let me know when the lease ends. 

Thanks, 

Jeff (Douche Bag in apt. 1F)"

Oh, happy day! Could it be he will be moving out soon??? One can only hope. 

I am quite proud of how well I have adapted to apartment living considering the six years before I moved to Chicago were in a lovely little bungalow with a yard and a front porch and plenty of space between me and my neighbors. Now I am in a building with three other units, in an apartment that faces the alley and a 4:00am clog dancing landlord above me. Peace and quiet are not really buzz words in my domestic life. But I adapted (mainly by blasting Reverend Horton Heat at 6:00am in retaliation for the clog dancing). 

Then Douche Bag moved in last year. I hate him. No. Really. I HATE him. This is the a-hole who constantly leaves his laundry in the machines and then leaves the building. In one year I have touched his laundry more than I touched my ex-husband's in 12 years of marriage. (No, I did not do my husband's laundry. And, no, that is not why our marriage failed.) Every time he goes in or out the back door (which shares a hallway with my front door) it sounds like a herd of elephants. The things on my walls literally shake. Every time. And did I mention the cologne? Oh, for the love of all that is holy, the cologne! If I leave my apartment within a 1/2 hour of him being in the hallway it makes my eyes water and my nasal passages revolt. 

So, yep. I'm pretty excited to see him go. Let's just hope the next neighbor is better.  Ooooooo! Maybe he'll be a TALL, SINGLE MILLIONAIRE!