And like a good neighbor

Living in close quarters is tough, but it's something just about all city-livers have to put up with.

Every day around 6 a.m. when the three-year-old who lives upstairs rises, for instance, she slips on her wooden clogs and tromps downstairs, into the kitchen, around the living room, back up the stairs, down the hall on a joy-run cat-chasing mission, back down the stairs and finally, about an hour later, out the door.

An article in today's WP adresses how to handle close-quartered neighbors with tact ("Snuff out the smokers without starting a fire"), but I find I'm not any more inclined to tell little tromper's mother that she should burn those shoes.

A few weeks ago, I was back from a walk and Tromper and her mom were outside in our shared front yard. Tromper was wearing a little pink skirt and a little white ruffled top. Her whispy blonde hair was in knots, her cheeks were round and peachy and she was sitting in a heap of fresh-cut grass she'd gathered into a pile.

She was wearing the clogs. And they were pink.

Damn were they cute.

Believe you me, if they hadn't been, I'd have executed my plan to yank them off her feet (how would I do it without being stopped?) and take off running down the alley en route to the dump ... or a large, burning fire.

But I imagined the screaming. It could last hours and that would certainly interupt Sunday afternoon football.

And then I imagined that to pacify the screaming, Mom Tromper and Dad Tromper would do what I would have done -- buy another pair. Only this time, I reasoned, they may have upped them a size so that she could wear them next season, too.

Then Mom Tromper hit me square in the face with the question, "Are we too loud?"

Holy shit, yes, woman. Do you have any idea what those shoes sound like from the underside of a hard wood floor?

"No, no. You're fine. I mean, sometimes we hear the girls," I said looking right at Little Tromper and smiling, "but they're darling." ... when they're asleep, I should have added.

We exchanged a few more words, smiled and went our seperate ways. It wasn't until later that night, as our IPod screamed Buena Vista Social Club and both televisions blared CNN, I saw the genius in Mom Tromper's Jedi mindtrick.

I turned the music down and shut off one of the televisions.

Now, Tromper has a new name.

Pitter Pat.