The apartment that The Boss and I live in shares common walls with our landlords. Our portion of the house is technically the in-law apartment of the house, divided by a wall of less-than-standard thickness. It took us less than one week to learn that even a normal-volume conversation could be overheard, be it our conversation or theirs.
Having only a few inches between our sides of the house has made for interesting moments in the past couple months. Like the time where they had sex (yes, that one time). Or when they fought while having dinner:
Him: I'M YELLING AT YOU ABOUT SOMETHING INCONSEQUENTIAL.Her: I'M YELLING EVEN LOUDER THAN YOU TO PROVE MY POINT.Him: Can you pass the salt?Her: Sure, darling.Him: I STILL THINK YOU ARE WRONG, THUS MY CONTINUED RAISED VOICE.Her: WHATEVER YOU SAY, DEAR. YOU'RE STILL SLEEPING ON THE COUCH.
Or my personal favorite, when they run their diesel-engine powered dishwasher at 10pm at night. Nothing like the roar of high-pressure water and a 16-horsepower drain pump that needs new bearings to lull you to a peaceful night's sleep.
There have been a variety of things I have overheard, but lately something new has come up that just takes the cake.
A couple of times a week, one of my landlords (I can never tell if it is the He or the She) will draw up a bath. Their upstairs bathroom is partly above our living room, and with the thin walls and flooring we can clearly hear the tub filling up. Once the water shuts off, you can hear them testing the temperature of the water and then setting into the tub. There is a period of loud, watery sloshing sounds, but then all is still.
And then, whoever is in the tub will fart.
It is unlike anything I have ever heard. These particular farts aren't the petite little one-cheek-sneak farts. These are marathon farts, the I-just-ate-chili farts, the I-didn't-know-I-had-a-tuba-up-my-butt kind of farts. It's a bare-ass, cheek-slapping fart against a hard surface. There is a squeak or a squeal almost, and of course, the bubbles. And oh, the bubbles! The escaping ass-air has to go somewhere, right? The sound of the bubbles is like someone switched on a jacuzzi for about 3.7 seconds.
This always happens in the evening, most often when both The Boss and I are sitting in the living room. After the butt-trumpet goes off over our heads, we have to stifle our rapturous laughter to keep from being overheard next door. I know that if we can hear them, they can hear us when we burp and fart, but I don't want to make it any more embarrassing than it needs to be.
I think I'm going to leave a bottle of Bean-O with our rent check next month.