When we first moved to Phoenix, Arizona we lived in apartments. My husband liked the ground floor because he couldn’t see any reason to carry groceries and laundry up and down stairs. Okay, I can see that, but the view is better from on the second and third floor and it never flooded on the second floor.
In one complex we had neighbors move in above us and I swear, they were elephants. They stomped from morning until they went to bed.
I came home early with a migraine and after about two hours I had had enough. I stomped up to their door and banged on it, and told them how I felt in terms that might have made the woman’s hair curl.
I got a call from management telling me that I couldn’t talk to them like that. They weren’t interested in them stomping all hours of the day and night.
I made up my mind that we had to get out of there before I got arrested, and we did. We bought a house. The decision was made the day I saw the Mrs. taking laundry down stairs and she was pregnant!!!!
What I wanted to do so bad it hurt: call every charity in the city; give them that address and tell them that I wanted to donate all my household belongings to them and to just come and get them. Oh yes, and my name is Mrs. Ella Phant.
I had so may happy minutes musing about how much fun it would be to watch and listen to the conversation between Mrs. Ella Phant and the charity trying to move her belongings out.