STRANGER THAN FICTION: ON APARTMENT LIVING, ANDY ROONY AND BEING 'PERFECT'

There's an art to apartment living.

I should know.

Since leaving my parents' residence in a middle-class Sikeston neighborhood, I've lived in two trailers (yes, I'll admit it!), one rental house, one guest house and a whopping eight apartments. That's counting the "luxury townhome" I'm in now, which features a gorgeous view of a parking lot from the back veranda (a concrete slab) and of the community Dumpster out front.

Don't get me wrong. I'm lucky to have my townhome. It has 2.5 bathrooms, which means I'll never get stuck in that rut of using the same old toilet again and again. Whew!

And it means The Other Half gets his own bathroom. I like that because he produces roughly 10 times the body hair I do, and that makes for some pretty ugly drain encounters, if you get my drift.

Our spacious digs also meant Mr. Half had a guest room to decorate, which allowed him an outlet for his "talent" that few people will see. How many guests will we have, really? Our friends and family aren't exactly flocking to Cape Girardeau, even though I've sent them brochures for the Rush Limbaugh Hometown Tour, Bollinger Mill and Trail of Tears. I figured that last one would at least attract my one friend of Native American heritage, but no luck.

"Why don't you just come here?" she said. "I'm only a mile from the beach now."

Wench.

Anyway, the secret to apartment living is to go with the flow. Be friendly with your neighbors but not intrusive, remembering that you're all just waiting to buy a house, where one actually doesn't know how passionate the newlyweds next door are.

And always remember: You never know where your neighbors are and what they can hear.

Take last weekend's encounter with the man next door. I went to the back patio to shake out a rug. My patio is divided from the man's by a tall privacy fence, which certainly isn't soundproof.

The neighbor's friendly dog approached me while I shook out the rug. I gave her a pat and cooed, "So you're the little twit who wakes me up with her barking."

I suddenly heard my neighbor's voice from the other side of the fence.

"Muffin! Come here!" he commanded. The little dog took off.

Oops.

In all fairness, the dog only woke me up once, and that's because my cat was in the window egging her on.

So I'm not exactly expecting Christmas cookies from my neighbor this year.

* * *

I was in a restaurant Sunday and "60 Minutes" was on the television. I caught Andy Rooney talking about the difference between Pepsi and Coke.

"60 Minutes" is an institution in my grandparents' house. Grammy and Pop-Pop have watched it religiously for years, which meant, as a 7-year-old living in their house for a time, I watched it religiously.

I hated all of it except Andy Rooney. When he came on, I laughed my little behind off. There was just something about his endless whining that cracked me up.

Mr. Half says he loved Andy Rooney as a kid, too. But neither of us bother to watch him now. (He's up against Fox's Sunday line-up, and by Sunday, we're ready to be brainless for a few hours.)

I wonder if today's kids feel the same way.

* * *

Also on Sunday, caught the Destiny's Child concert in Farmington because (a) I like their music, and (b) I couldn't believe the group that won a Grammy just a few weeks ago was kicking off its first headliner tour in Farmington.

I was the oldest childless woman there. Most of the audience wasn't old enough to drive themselves there, and I don't have many opportunities to hang out with that age group.

So what is up with all these 12-year-olds wearing T-shirts that say "princess" and "I rule" and "perfect." I mean, it's good to have self-esteem, but dang!!!

At that age, my T-shirt would have said, "Starting to like boys but self-conscious about my height and weight and have a zit on my nose."