I guess I could make a long meaningless excuse for why I haven’t blogged in six months. But I don’t want to, and I don’t think you want me to either. Instead, I’m just going to say that shit got real for a while, and I’m presently working my way out of an extended period of sloth-like mediocrity and toward something new, as evidenced by such things as the complete redesign of this blog and the (hopefully) different slant my writing takes henceforth.
So why not get right to it? I’m going to do a series of posts about our recent experience with corporate housing. Forgive me if you’ve already heard these stories. I’ll shamelessly complain about The Apartment to anyone who will listen.
This week, we’ll begin with my personal favorite of all time, wherein I am nearly shot…
A bit of a preface first – When we lived in Austin, we lived way way south, on the edge of the city limits. Just about every afternoon a neighbor shot guns, probably practicing for the glorious day when Texas would finally cede from the nation. Or perhaps honing skills for the fast approaching zombie apocalypse, who knows? Whatever the reason, the great echoing booms scared the shit out of our dogs. It got so bad, they wouldn’t even go outside in the afternoon, gunshots or no. So when we moved to Portland, one of the things I promised them was that there wouldn’t be anymore gunshots. Ha. Ha.
Our Oregon apartment was a tiny cookie cutter sort of thing where you could hear everything from all the apartments around you. We were blessed to be on the second floor where we got to hear the blaring t.v. and late night parties of the downstairs neighbors and the stampeding children running in circles from the neighbors above. Lucky us.
It’s eight thirty on a Sunday night sometime in November. The baby’s in bed, Dan is watching t.v. and I’m in the kitchen doing the dishes in my nightgown. Pepper Potts is right beside me. She has a habit of finding a “safe spot” everywhere we live, where she can go in times of trouble – and for some reason she’s chosen the tiny kitchen, between the fridge and the dishwasher, in this place.
So we’re in the kitchen together, me loading the dishwasher, her looking at me with mild disdain. And all of a sudden there’s a huge thud and the floor kind of vibrates. It’s almost as if the disposal has fallen out of the sink or something. Dan hears it too and comes over to inspect.
Pepper, of course, hightails it out of the kitchen in search of a better safe spot and we try to figure out what’s happened with no luck. I let it go because everything seems fine and I’ve got dishes to do.
A few minutes later…
I’m in the bedroom and hear a knock on the door. Dan answers and then comes in with a frown on his face.
“Do you want me to tell you what that noise was? Because I’m not sure you want to know.”
Hmm. Of course I had to know. Of course I did.
“It was the downstairs neighbor. I guess he was cleaning his shotgun and it accidentally went off.”
Blank stare. It might take me a few minutes to process this information in its entirety.
“He claimed it was an ‘unintentional discharge event’.”
“We should probably keep an eye on the pipes and the dishwasher, make sure there aren’t any leaks or anything.”
I think even now, four months later, I’m still processing the fact that our neighbor “unintentionally discharged” a gun into our floor right where I was standing.
Dan helpfully pointed out that we were lucky he hadn’t been cleaning a rifle.
And poor Pepper Potts. She went from being traumatized by the sounds of our neighbors’ guns, to almost being shot by a neighbor’s gun. I way oversold Portland to her, and she still hasn’t forgiven me.