My new neighbor/roommie moved in the first weekend of May and it didn’t take long (all of three nights) for me to introduce myself in the bitchiest manner possible. At approximately 11:27 p.m. on a Monday night, he thought it was a good time to move boxes from the living room into his bedroom, dropping them on the floor above my bed each time. Later, he put a hammer to use. A hammer.

After 30 minutes and more than a few “Ah, hell no’s,”  I threw the covers back and sprung into action. I’m going to lay down the law now before months or a whole year goes by. I’ve lived here five years and I’m entitled to throw my weight around. Or, at least that’s what I told myself as I scrubbed the night-time mask off my face in a fury of angst, shoved my feet into my slippers, and barged upstairs where I banged on his door like a hell-bent census worker.

On the other side of the door, I heard a scramble take place between the bedroom and the living room where some hitherto unheard country “music” bullshit was quieted. Moments later, the door opened, showing the perp’s identity. A mangy, skinny, baby-faced 22-24 year old hobbit. YOU’RE the one making all that noise, I instantly thought. Instead, what I said was something along the lines of…

“I’m your downstairs neighbor and I realize you just moved in and probably have a lot of unpacking to do and whatnot, but whatever it is that you’re doing right now above my bedroom is loud and just…no. You have to stop. Maybe do it during the day, or I don’t know, before 11 o’clock at night.”

I tried, I really tried. I wanted to sound just scary enough to be taken seriously but also not completely off my rocker. In retrospect, I’m sure the threadless t-shirt I was sporting reinforced my intent more than my words. It was a gift.

This is not me. In case you were uncertain....

After a wide-eyed initial apology and just as I was about to return to my den of haterade, he says, “Can I ask you something? [dramatic pause] Is it really that loud?”

I’m going to be honest: with that, my mouth fell open. “You’re building furniture above my bedroom at 11:30 at night. Yeah, it’s that loud.”

I didn’t wait for him to respond further. I marched downstairs and went back to bed. After another 10 minutes of noise, he finally quieted down. The next morning, I awoke proud and empowered. Take that, world! But by Wednesday, he was at it again. He came home after 11 p.m. with a slam of the door and swiftly returned to his “construction zone.” The boxes must have been emptied and the furniture built, but dammit, he still had his hammer. I can only imagine that the thought process, or lack thereof, ran along the lines of: “Have hammer. Have walls. Must. Hang. Objects.”

What can I say? With all his late-night woodworking antics and home improvement tendencies, my neighbor’s a regular “Geppetto.” Also, a real asshole.

BUT….

It’s that time of year again. The time when competitive sports become interesting before their long winter (AKA baseball season), the time when words and phrases like “and 1,” “brick,” and “in the paint” once again become a part of my lexicon. When I marvel at Krzyzewski’s perma shoe polish hair, and am reminded of such animals as terrapins and catamounts and lobos, oh my!

March Madness is nearly upon us and while my body valiantly attempts to absorb this z-pack, I’ve also tried to absorb what sports commentary was available on ESPN for free (read: very little). Thus, my final four this year consists of Kansas, Kansas St., West Virginia, and Villanova. I know, I know…what, no Kentucky? Kansas St. over Syracuse? Really? Yes, really. Suck it, haters.**

And for those of you who are “meh” about The Madness, there’s that other bracket. My final four there? Lady Gaga, Taylor Momsen, Juliette Lewis, and Rhianna. I think Little J is the dark horse here in that while she may be young, she doesn’t have an excuse for being such a dumbass about fashion like Lady Gaga (it’s her thing), Juliette Lewis (she’s just cracked out anyway), and Rhianna (who actually can pull off most of her crazy). Little J, I am not amused.

That’s all I’ve got, kids. Back to drinking green*** tea and not sleeping at my desk. And you, well, you’ve got some brackets to fill out. So get to it, yo!

*Or applied.

**My apologies. Blame the cold medicine for my snarkiness. Also, GHatorade. 

***Because it’s green and it’s St. Patrick’s Day. Ahhh, snap.

We sat down. We ordered food. We sat in silence. We looked about the room. We sipped our drinks. We talked about how sad the Whale Wars marathon on Planet Green was last night. We sat in silence some more. We eavesdropped- it was unavoidable!

The conversation next door was a runaway train of dating energy. The girl would NOT stop her “laughing.” She was overeager and it was embarrassing to witness her unreciprocated enthusiasm. While she dug and scraped at her Eggs Benedict with feigned interest in eating, the dude peppered her with a question here or there. He was polite, though douchey, playing it cool in that nonchalant way that dudes can affect whilst still wearing sweatpants. There were mentions of “last night” and, curiously enough, “one dollar bills.” There were references to high school and trips to DC. There was a brief swapping of future job interests.

Loudly, and not at all concerned for himself being overheard (because he couldn’t give a shit and is just as, if not more, judgmental than me), my boyfriend remarks more than asks, “What is this, the guy she picked up at the bar last night?” We both laughed and I thought,”I love you for statements like that.” Later, as we quickly wrapped up our breakfast and went about our day, the whole episode got me to thinking…

When you’re in the early stages of a relationship, when you’re still full of hope and joy and giddiness, before you’ve found that one thing that annoys the ever living fuck out of you; you look at couples sitting silently like my boyfriend and I and tell yourself you’ll never let that happen to YOUR relationship. Oh no. Perish the thought.

And then, when you’re in a relationship like ours and you’re sitting in companionable quiet, you mock and smirk at those fledgling couples with open disdain. You reflect upon their doings with genuine gratitude that you no longer have to partake in such put-on happiness and optimism and “oh, isn’t everything just wonderful, I’m never in a bad mood ever, I’m wonderful, like me like me like me!” Instead, you can just be.

I don’t know that one perspective is better than the other, but I’m content and grateful to be with someone like him, someone who I can joke around with and be all judgey and 100% me- annoying habits and bad moods and all.

Punta Cana 2009

And this?

Punta Cana Sunrise

And this too?

Punta Cana Awesomeness

This is where I’ll be, topless and tanning, INSTEAD of playing baby games at that bullshit “Couple’s Shower.“  Oopsie. I’m sure that will go over real well. 

Sixteen days and counting!

Behold, my list of unabated and MAJESTIC! snark…

• I hate the abbreviated usage of the word “appetizer.” I always think of Lincoln Park douchebags who begin most sentences with “a couple of my buddies and I…” These are the same fratastic Jäger bomb drinkers who spout “let’s get some apps” all the time. AH! Hate hate hate that. Which is only compounded these days by all the iPhone “there’s an app for that” bullshit. How about there’s an app for SHUT THE HELL UP?!

• People who don’t say “hi” back or look at me all “I don’t give a shit, you whore” when I smile politely at them as I pass by. Smile, dammit! I’m nice, despite all evidence to the contrary.

• Easter grass. The plastic static cling kind. I detest the stuff- always have. I hate how when you’re reaching for that hidden treasure (Reese’s egg), you invariably come away with the janky ass crap on your shirt sleeve, which transfers to your pant leg, which you find on the side of your couch two weeks later.

• Eat Pray Love. I proudly stand as my own one woman crusade of haterade for Elizabeth Gilbert. I think her book- and I read it cover to cover- is a misguided epitaph against mental health awareness. I should note that I’m supportive of therapists and anti-depressants from my own need for both and the benefits I’ve experienced as a result. Which is why I think it’s unethical for dear ole Lizzy to perpetuate the stigma attached to treating depression by her own ill advised decisions to treat hers with food, yoga, and a freaking man. Problem solved. Yeah, right.

• Board and/or card games, also known as my personal hell. Although I have been known to make exception for Scrabble, Uno, or Jenga. Mostly because I divide and conquer at Scrabble. Bring it.

• The words “loin,” “pussy,” “tits, “moist,” “fashionista,” “taint,” “va-jay-jay,” “discharge,” “c you next Tuesday”… hell, who am I kidding? We could be here all day. “Panty,” “vom,” “muffin-top”…

• Jeggings. Seriously people, just stop. Stop it. Back away from the overpriced stretchy fake ass denim “pants.” They cost as much, if not more, than honest to goodness jeans. And what’s with those pockets on the back? Why not just wear some effing skinny jeans and call it a day? While I’m at it, I hate crocs too. If you’re going to wear crocs, why don’t you just give up on life? Because that’s what you look like when you shuffle along wearing them.

• Sweetest Day. One word: LAME.

What gets you unabashedly snarky?

Kill me now.

Can someone please explain to me what the hell a “Couples Shower” is? Because I just don’t even know anymore.

My friend Mara, the same one who got married in all kinds of annoying ways, who went AWOL after ascending to the state of wifedom, and who is now in the family way; has sent me a preemptive “baby” shower invitation via email. While I anticipated this invite, I am completely thrown by her version of it. She’s turned the requisite 3-4 hour baby shower experience into a day long/ overnight extravaganza complete with BYOM (Bring Your Own Meat for grilling- nevermind that it’ll be March and only 30 degrees outside if we’re lucky).

The whole concept of this event annoys me. I simply cannot understand why she has to turn a typical celebration like a wedding or a freaking baby shower into a major production. Why can’t she just do what is expected in these situations? What the hell is her deal?

As for inviting spouses/significant others, maybe I’m missing the point here, but what exactly are the invited men (all husbands/fathers except for my boyfriend) going to do at this “Couples Shower”? Eat pink and blue frosted cupcakes? Play pin-the-diaper on the baby? Commend the diaper cake bringer for her craftiness? Fake smile as the soon-to-be-mom unwraps breast pumps and the like? Really? Why would I EVER want to expose my boyfriend to that kind of nonsense?

I cannot fathom how or why it would be appropriate, let alone expected, that men participate in such antics. I don’t even want to participate. I’d rather just send a fancy gift; spend a little extra to compensate for my absence. Especially since it’s a six hour drive round trip and the shower is scheduled for the first weekend of March Madness. Salt in the wound, people. SALT.

Regardless of my utter confusion and subsequent scheduling crisis, I feel obligated to attend. I feel obligated to smile and ask questions pertaining to Baby, to act like I give a shit. Maybe it makes me a bad friend to admit this (and there’s no way in hell I’d ever say this to her because you just don’t do that sort of thing), but I don’t give a shit and with good reason.  

She’s always told me she never wanted kids, even on “her” wedding day she said “maybe in a few years” she’d think about it, and then swiftly capitulated to her husband who was adamant about having kids immediately. Sure, it’s her choice, but why should I also have to capitulate and support a decision I think is wrong and unfair to both her and the unborn? Does my friendship mean I’m required to be complicit, to condone what I view as a mistake?

I have to wonder though at my apparent inability to feel genuine happiness for her. I wonder why I can’t just be a good friend and be more supportive. It’s her life, her marriage, her choice to have a baby if she wants and it has nothing to do with me. In spite of all that, the truth is she can knock herself out calling this “Baby Couples Shower” whatever she likes. I’ll still be wishing I was watching the college basketball tournament instead of participating in what I feel is nothing short of a train wreck.

Stop yourself.

So last night I slept like a punk per usual. Asleep by 11:15, awake again at 3:30, back asleep around 4:40, then up for work at 5:30. I suck at sleeping. It’s epic.

In the middle of all of this nonsleeping, I woke up from a crazy ass dream. Apparently, I was meeting the cast of Jersey Shore (which I’m completely addicted to). Talk about dreaming BIG.

In this dream, I appeared to be meeting The Situation, Pauly D, Snookie, and JWoww at a “booksigning” at a Borders. Only, the thing is, there wasn’t a book or anything like it (real shocker there), and they all just stood around in their general douchey state for pictures and autographs. I guess it was something more along the lines of a meet and greet. You know, because they’re famous.

Anyway, so I’m standing there trying to be all excited to meet them, but mostly I’m just annoyed by Mike, The Situation. I kept ripping on him for his “Popeye the Sailor Man” face and asking what his deal was anyway. Then, I started complaining that Ronnie wasn’t there because apparently, and I quote, “he’s my favorite and the only one whose autograph I actually want anyway” (which is categorically inaccurate because I think Vinnie is the most entertaining one on the show- mostly due to his ironic disdain for his own kind and offhand comments to that effect).

So after all that disappointment what do I do? I take some paper and a pencil and write, “Hey- from Ron” on it and storm out. Because really, with that group, can you expect anything more?

I award this dream zero fist pumps.