Posted by: shanty | February 7, 2008

Football Dykes… FINALLY

Hey everybody. Due to high demand I am FINALLY getting to my crazy neighbor story. Advanced warning: This one turned out waaaaaaaay long. So sit back, relax, and enjoy.

Picture it: Baltimore, Spring of 2006.


I bought my cute row house in Baltimore in May and moved in the next month. At the time there was a crazy old German woman and her slightly younger yet just as crazy niece living in the house next door. I referred to the niece as Gladys Kravitz since she knew about everyone on the block. She’d talk about the crackhouse down the street, the crazy clown-car-children-of-the-corn house across the street, the spinster up the street with the crazy dog, the bitchy mute woman who lived on the other side of me who apparently had a sordid affair with the son of Deaf Lillian (seriously, she is so hard of hearing I thought she was a mean old lady for the first few months I lived there. Turned out she just couldn’t hear me.) who lives on the other side of Galdys, on and on. She also was a bad baker (ask Gabriel and Shannon M. because they witnessed not only the bad banana bread but also me standing on my porch shit talking ABOUT the bad banana bread WHILE GLADYS WAS ON HER PORCH and they NEVER told me!) and always insisted on giving me some samples. She couldn’t possibly have thought I was starving to death, but that my friends is another story.

The aunt had been sick since I started living there and was in rehab when I first moved in. My favorite memory of her is when I was walking down my street to my car one morning I said hello and asked her how she was feeling. She said (with her thick German accent), “Oh not good. I’m gonna die.” This was 8 am, mind you. I was taken aback and said something to the effect of, “Well I hope it’s not today!” and waved and kept going.

Anyway, fast forward to this summer, when Gladys and her aunt were nowhere to be seen. I screamed across two porches asking Deaf Lillian where Gladys and her aunt were. The aunt had another stroke and was moving to a nursing home permanently and Gladys was going back to her house in Westminster. She had apparently sold the aunt’s house to a “family friend” (for almost $40k less than I has paid for mine the year before) who re-sold it to a real estate developer who had plans to rent it out.

Now I’m only turning 27 next month. But when I heard that the house next door to mine was being rented out, a shroud of dread began to wrap itself around me. I could feel my osteo-hump forming, my hair going gray and the sawed off shot gun appearing out of nowhere in my hand. I had become that neighbor. The “I own my house and no group of wild and crazy kids are going to move in next door to ME!” neighbor.

For those of you who don’t know me, I used rent a row house in the Remington neighborhood of Baltimore for almost three years before moving into an apartment and ultimately into my own house. That house had plenty of crazy roommates, parties, sex, poperas, fights, and illicit substances and I’m sure none of it was particularly quiet. So I knew even before the new neighbors moved in that this would be, as my mother says, payback time.

And while it’s not as bad as I’m sure it could be, it’s not the quiet sanctity that it once was with Gladys and her crazy aunt that I took so much for granted.

I nosy-nieghbored my way into finding out that the house was being rented out to three “nice, professional” girls (prostitutes? investment bankers? that could mean anything) in their 20’s. So they moved in and it pretty much started right away. Banging. All the time. From everywhere. I swear to god it sounded like they were rolling a bowling ball down the stairs instead of just walking down them. Doors slamming at all hours of the day and night. Screaming at TV shows (I assumed football since the majority of the loudest TV screaming occurred on Monday nights and thus dubbed them ‘The Football Dykes.’). Screaming and laughing so loud I was sometimes convinced they were doing it into a bullhorn.

Now my house was built in 1927. It doesn’t have the paper thin walls you’d expect in a motel on the Jersey shore. It has an old school stone foundation and the walls are solid brick with plaster on top. I’ve never heard anything through those walls until my new neighbors moved in.

The straw that broke the camels back was right before Christmas. Robbie and I were out somewhere and he dropped me off and I could tell that the neighbors were having a party. It was almost 2 am so I imagined it wouldn’t be that loud. I got in to my house and it was like fuckin’ Animal House was blaring through the walls. Music blasting, girls drunkenly screaming, “OhmigodsarahyouHAVEtodrinkanotherbeer!” Bowling balls rolling down the stairs again. This went on until almost 4 am.

Needless to say I. HAD. HAD. IT. I was constantly bitching to Robbie about it and he bascially told me to shit or get off the pot already. Either I needed to confront them somehow or stop complaining because he was (rightfully so) sick of hearing about it.

So two days after Christmas I taped a note to their front door in the middle of the night. Sure it was cowardly, but I’m bad at confrontation. Superbad infact. Everybody knows I talk a lot of shit but it takes A LOT for me to actually do the one on one thing. Anyway, I thought the note was hysterical. It basically said (I SO wish I had it with me to scan and include here. If I remeber, I’ll do it tomorrow): “Maybe you don’t realize how loud you are, but I can hear everything you do. I wanted to let you know before I called your landlord or the cops. Sorry to be a bitch, but I don’t want to listen to your screaming. Thanks and Happy New Year! Shannon at 4434”

A few days go by (actually it was January 2nd because it was my first day back to work after New Year’s) and I walked into my house after work juggling the purse o’ shit, keys, and mail all the while trying to kick my cats out from under my feet. I turned around to lock my door and three girls are standing on my porch. Obvs the girls from next door. Out of the fucking blue I might add. They introduced themselves quickly and apologized for taking so long to come over but they had been out of town (ah, thus the blissful silence) and were obviously scared I was going to call the cops. They told me to knock on their door or call their cell phones if they were ever too loud. They had written all of their names and cell numbers on the envelope from my note (prior planning!) and kept apologizing. I said I was sorry to be a bitch, but I wanted to tell them because I thought they may not know.

And here’s the best part–and point–of the story: after parting ways I went back in my house, locked the door and glanced at the envelope.

One of the girls name’s is:


As in ‘Captain and’.

You’d better believe I’m keeping THAT envelope fo’ eva!



  1. Beautiful!!! This is why you are blogging in the first place. So it sucks when shit happens to you, but sometimes the comedy that results… is a little worth it.

    However, you didn’t mention that any of these 3 20 year old professional ladies all look like 12 year old boys.

  2. that was the hilarious story?

  3. no, stu. that was the fake hilarious story. stay tuned for the real one. geez.

  4. Shannon, I can only imagine the physical action – I did pee a little. Thank you for sharing. LOL LOL

  5. excellent! Don;t listen to Stu….this is priceless!!

  6. Terry & Cathy–I’m glad you enjoyed it! 🙂


%d bloggers like this: