OR: Why My Neighbors Probably Think I’m A Bitch
I live in a great apartment. I moved there in October of 2008 and have since felt no need to move out. It’s clean, full of light, has free laundry in the basement, a HUGE attic for storage, a driveway, dishwasher, garbage disposal, big backyard, and more. I love my apartment. But, just like people, no apartment is perfect. Besides adding more outlets, if I could change something about my apartment, it would be to rip the doorbell out of the wall, take it outside, and bash it to pieces with a sledgehammer. Doesn’t that sound like fun???
I HATE the doorbell. It’s loud. It’s intrusive. It plays a song that is entirely too long. If you know me, ask me to sing the doorbell song for you. I’m very good at it. If you push the button more than once, the song starts, stops abruptly, starts again, stops abruptly, etc. So obnoxious.
If I know that I have guests coming over, I hover by the window around the estimated time of their arrival so I can run downstairs to let them inside before they ring the bell. When I order food for delivery, I leave explicit instructions for the driver to call when he or she arrives. If I could figure out how to cut the wires for the doorbell, I totally would.
Now, because of all my precautions, I know that when the doorbell does ring, it’s probably not someone I want to talk to. Or, more likely, it’s someone visiting the apartment downstairs. Somehow, no one can seem to figure out that the “2” written on the button means “apartment 2” and the “1” is for “apartment 1”. Granted, walking up to our front door and looking at the doorbell buttons can be confusing (there is one for each apartment and one leftover from when the house was a one-family home which doesn’t make any sound when pushed), BUT THEY ARE CLEARLY LABELED.
Over the years, there have been many instances of people ringing the wrong bell. My most favorite was when the bell rang about 16 times late on a Sunday night and, when I finally went to open it, some girl I did not know was trying to bring the girl who lived downstairs-who has since moved out-home from a bar. The girl from downstairs was sitting on our front stoop, throwing up into her lap. Unpleasant. Most recently, the girls downstairs were trying to find a new roommate and had several people over one evening to see the apartment. Before anyone showed up, they had, nicely, put a clearly labeled note on their doorbell with instructions to push and hold the button. Well, both the individual doorbell labels AND the note were apparently not enough for their visitors. Every person immediately pushed our doorbell first.
After the second occurrence of this, I was fed up (it doesn’t take long for me to get fed up with something). It was 8:30. I was already in my pajamas. Both my roommate and I would be in bed soon. We didn’t need our own personal clock tower chiming throughout the evening. So, I wrote my own note, which said something along the lines of “Please do not ring our doorbell! You’re probably here for apartment 1!” with an arrow pointing down to the correct bell. I affixed this note OVER our bell so it was unpushable. Is that a word? It is now.
Bitchy move? Sure. Do I care? No. A nice person probably would have just continued answering the door (like my roommate was) and directing the guest to the correct apartment. I was not feeling like a nice person that day.
Plus, I just really, really, really hate our doorbell.
Song of the Day: My Doorbell by The White Stripes (I like this song, but please don’t ring mine)