And not by nice, pretty Raechelle either.
But by 8am-just-woke-up-against-my-will-seahawks-sweatshirt-didn't-even-brush-my-teeth-or-pick-the-crusties-out-of-my-eyes Raechelle.
I heard the music at 7:30am. Oh, for cryin' out loud. But I think I can still sleep, so I put in earplugs. They do wonders. Until the djembe starts.
Earplugs cannot help me when the djembe starts.
I, quite loudly, stomp up to Esther's apartment and, quite loudly, knock on her door. The music immediately stops. She says, "Who is it?"
I respond, without the least bit of friendliness in my voice (and you know how difficult that is for me *giggle*), "Your downstairs neighbor."
Esther opens the door, looking like she's going clubbing. Dressed in black from head to toe, high heeled boots on, her black hair, straightened and shiny. And more eye make up than I probably have in my whole arsenal of makeup. Why, is she off to church? I don't think so.
"Do you have djembe?" I ask.
"Oh. Yeah. Can you hear it?"
"Um. Yes. I'm right below you." I remind her.
"I had it on the floor and was just tapping on it."
"Yes, that's how a djembe works. And that would maybe be okay but not at 8am on a Sunday morning."
"And the music....?"
"I can hear it and again, probably okay. But not at 8am on a Sunday morning. How about not before 9am on any morning?"
Esther is now mortified. She has probably never lived in an apartment building in all of her 23 years. I'm thinking she's fresh out of the dorm where no one could hear her djembe over their music and everyone was just going to bed at 8am on a Sunday morning. Seems very likely.
Esther also doesn't have anyone living above her so she's not familiar with the concept of how sound and vibrations travel downward. Being a musician, you would think she would know this.
For the next ten minutes, all was quiet at Esther's. Then, as I began to type, I heard her leave. And literally tip toe down the stairs.
My job here is done.
I went back to bed and slept until 1:30pm. That'll show her!