Pass the earplugs, please

Raise your hand if you've had a noisy neighbor. If you've been a noisy neighbor, raise both your hands...so I can punch you squarely in the gut.

When I moved into my first house in 1998, it was a new-construction, cookie-cutter neighborhood. Like me, my next-door neighbors were first-time home owners. We were all very respectful of each other and noise was never an issue. It was a great neighborhood for about five years. I had heard from a few people that new neighborhoods start going downhill after about 5-7 years. Yep, that seemed about right. Fast-forward to 2002/2003.

Our previous neighbor, who we nicknamed "Rocker Jay" because of his bad-ass mullet/mustache combination, was a good guy. He was married with a two-year old. He lent us his ladder a few times and I returned his son to him when the little guy escaped on his watch - and I didn't even tell his wife. We engaged in the usual smalltalk from time to time, like most neighbors do. A funny side note - one day, Rocker Jay was talking to us about his cats. He found it strange that one fluffy, white cat in particular just disappeared one day. "Hmm, that's weird," we told him with matching puzzled looks. About a year before this conversation, some fluffy, white cat chose our backyard as it's final resting place. It had no tags and we weren't sure whose it was, so we (George) bagged it up and put it on the sidewalk for animal control to pick up. We probably should have told him...oops. Anyway, Rocker Jay sold his house to another family. Enter "Chet the redneck." Chet (the redneck) was former military and now a defense contractor of some sort. His wife was the meek, subservient housewife of a military husband. They had an infant son and two huge dogs - a rottweiler and a mutt. The first day they moved in, the dogs barked. And barked. And barked some more. They were kept on the side of the yard - the same side of the yard that bordered our house and bedroom. The Rott could see the street and sidewalk from the spaces between the fence slats. If a car drove by, a person walked in front of their house, or worse yet, another dog walked by, it barked, growled and charged the fence. It had that kind of rabid, Cujo, junkyard dog thing going on. We talked with Chet and got nowhere. Luckily, his wife was a little easier to talk to and she convinced him to get shock collars for both dogs. They worked for a while, but because the dogs were outside 24 hours a day, they were agitated and wanted to be free. I was sure they would break out and hurt someone sooner or later. Thankfully, that never happened. We were fortunate that Chet was often sent overseas for his job and was gone for months at a time. His wife kept the dogs in the garage at night. Otherwise, when he was home, they were out, and barking at all times of the day and night. Anyway, they were horrible dog owners and I called animal control a few times and tried to rally other neighbors to call animal control as well. Long story short, we dealt with it, meaning we put up with it, and moved to our current home in August of 2005. Okay, another side note - if you know me, you know I'm not a spiritual person, but I do believe in Karma. One morning, about a week after we moved out, Chet was warming up his fancy new truck in the driveway. Someone stole the truck as it was running with the keys in the ignition. What a shame.

As previously mentioned, we moved into our new house in Ridgefield in August of 2005. Again, it was a new, cookie-cutter neighborhood and our next-door neighbors were friendly and respectful. In 2007, renters moved in behind us with a dog that spends a lot of time outside. It's clearly an indoor dog (small mutt), but when it's let out to do it's thing, it takes about an hour or longer for the owners to let it back in the house. Unfortunately, it only takes the dog five minutes to start barking because it wants inside. Sometimes it's at 10 or 11 at night, other times it's at 5 or 6 in the morning. My better half has informed me that new renters were moving in soon, or have already moved in. From the looks of my half-empty glass, I'm convinced that the next renters will not only have one barking dog, but two. Maybe they'll even be beagles or basset hounds. I'm sure the constant howling will be a white noise after a while. Ugh.

We were sad to see a "For Sale" sign in our next-door neighbor's lawn last winter. Corey and Meredith were pleasant to talk to, their four kids were adorable and sweet, and they were just nice people. When I was nine months pregnant and the snow was a foot and a half deep, Corey offered to drive me and George to the hospital if "the time" came before our roads were drivable (he had a suburban with four-wheel drive and chains). These are the type of people that everyone wants living next door. We had hoped that with the horrible economy, they wouldn't be able to move. Unfortunately, we were wrong. They found a great ranch house in Hockinson and were renting their house right away. The family who moved in seems fairly nice. Their boys took little time to make friends and were soon riding bikes and shooting hoops with other kids on the block. I came home one day and the dad was in the front yard. His name is Daryl, or Darrin, or Derek. I can't remember. We'll just call him Jeff. Don't even ask me what his wife's name is...no clue. Anyway, "Hi," I said, in my best "I'm a nice person, but don't cross me now that you live next door" voice. We exchanged small talk and I asked about his kids. "Four boys, huh? Really? Wow, that's GREAT." Translation - "keep them quiet and out of our yard." The next thing out of his mouth was, "I hate to tell you this, but my oldest son has a drum set." He seemed almost apologetic. Translation - "I'm sorry, but not as sorry as you're going to be." Okay, I don't mind the drums, or any instrument for that matter. After all, I was a band geek all through high school. But this kid is absolutely terrible. And, why is it that the worse kids are, the more they practice? Why couldn't he play the oboe or some other quiet, woodwind instrument? Why the drums? When he uttered those words, I pictured my half-empty glass falling off the table and spilling whatever liquid was in it all over the floor. And, low and behold, he plays them every. single. day. There's no corner of my house that offers a safe-haven from the clatter of what sounds like, well, you've been to the zoo, right? Picture a chimp. And not one of the old ones that just sits quietly in a corner. Picture the hyper chimp that's bouncing off the walls, swinging and howling like it's hopped up on a bad batch of monkey crack. Now, picture that same chimp sitting at a drum set made of upturned aluminum trash cans, the lids for cymbals, and two of the biggest wrenches you can find in the craftsman section of Sears. Turn that chimp loose on the trash cans and you've got my neighbor's son. Put your index finger and thumb a couple of millimeters apart. I'm that close to suggesting the dad pony up some cash for drum lessons. Yeah, it would still be loud, but can I at least get some rhythm, please? Luckily, his weekday sessions of noise pollution don't interfere with Taylor's nap time...yet. Spring break is around the corner and I'm sure he'll wake her up eventually. I see another blog (rant) in my future.