See, the couple sitting next to me turned out to be one of THOSE couples: an Icky Couple. And they were proving to be your quintessential Icky Couple. You know, the kind that can’t seem to walk down the street without grasping hands and kissing at each red light, the kind who can’t eat an otherwise perfectly acceptable meal without rubbing each other’s backs, necks or legs (BARF!), or the kind who has to stick their tongues down each other’s throats before parting each morning like one of them is being sent off to war or something. Dude, it’s nine or ten hours apart. I think you’ll make it.

As for this particular Icky Couple, they were making quite a show of it, acting like a bunch of janky ass fifteen year olds, holding hands, kissing each other’s cheeks, practically crawling into each other’s laps, laying their heads on one another’s shoulders à la “oh-my-god-we’re-so-sleepy-because-we-presumably-were-up-all-night-hahahahahahaha,” and talking in a tone louder than a whisper. Can you imagine?

If they were “just kids,” maybe I could have kept my disdain from growing into the seething fire breathing rage dinosaur it has become, but they weren’t. No. The Icky Couple consisted of two otherwise professional-looking adults, dressed for a day at the office where presumably they hold actual, grown up, professional jobs. So I have to wonder…who’s all this ickiness for anyway? Is it really necessary demonstrater your “love” amidst your fellow CTA bus riders? And is the 15-25 minute bus ride the right place and time to properly display said love? The way I see it, romance isn’t about being an Icky Couple to everyone around you. It’s about genuine and PRIVATE moments that don’t result in PDAs on the #135 route into the Loop before 8 am on a Tuesday.

Which brings to mind the day my own boyfriend and I accidentally wound up on the same bus route downtown. Strolling up to the bus stop that morning, I decided it would be best to throw my hip into him from behind, then wait for him to turn around all surly and shit. Which he totally did, except “Hi! It’s just me! Ha ha ha ha ha!!! Good morning!”

After the initial “Oh, it’s you” moment, we go on standing there all aloof and junk until the bus comes and then we sit down side by side, barely touching. And- this is key- for the short 15 minute ride downtown we don’t talk because 1) we don’t have to, and 2) it’s fucking annoying when people do that on public transportation in the morning. Seriously. Just don’t do it. Whether you know someone riding the bus with you or you dare to use your cell phone. DON’T. And, no, there’s no “texting loophole” either- unless you have your phone on silent and don’t make Icky Couple faces while sexting or whatever the fuck else it is that you’re doing. 

Anyway, to cap off the bus ride with my boyfriend that morning, we parted ways with a blasé eyebrow raise and head nod (from me) and a “peace out” punch to the arm (from him). You know, totally normal stuff really and, most importantly, no one’s morning was stymied in the process.

In closing, all you Icky Couple toolbags out there take note and keep it in your pants. No one wants to witness your “love” on public transportation, in the gluten free aisle at the Jewel, while you’re dropping off your dry cleaning, or you know, like ever (unless it’s your wedding, in which case, fine…I guess).

Shut it down, fuckers. Shut. It. Down.

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Exhibit A: This morning, I’m walking Wendy and we’re having a lovely time in the sunshine and she’s being super cute and sassy and prancey. And then, out of nowhere, there’s a lady standing in the middle of the sidewalk about 50 feet away from us. Just standing there, staring at us. And, apparently, yelling at us. Except, I can’t hear what she’s saying at all. I just see her lips moving and her arms gesticulating.

At first, I thought maybe she was yelling at me to clean up after my dog. Wendy had just conducted her business and I had just disposed of said business, but thought that maybe the OLD COOT hadn’t seen me do so. But then I caught one word- “bus”- and thought maybe she was yelling at me to hold the bus or some junk. Which seriously? I had a dog and wasn’t anywhere near the bus, so how the fuck was I supposed to accomplish that? Whore.

Anyway, so the whole time I’m wondering what the hell this old bat’s problem is, Wendy and I are also walking slowly down the sidewalk and closing the gap between us. Just as we get within hearing distance, I hear her yell, “I TOLD YOU TO KEEP HER ON THE SIDE!” or something along those lines. As she yelled this, she scurried off the sidewalk toward the street and began to swear and gesticulate with her purse.

So there I am, standing with my dog in disbelief, and shouting at her back: “WHAT?! I DIDN’T HEAR WHAT YOU SAID- WHAT’S WRONG?” The whole time, all these people are hurrying past on their way to the bus stop and I feel like an idiot. Except all I was doing was walking my dog down the sidewalk. She wasn’t barking or pulling at the leash or anything. Just walking. You know, really vicious stuff like that.

Before I turned and continue on home, Crab Ass made sure to return the volley: “OH JUST FORGET ABOUT! YOU DON’T LISTEN! STUPID [indecipherable haterade]…”

What. The. Hell.

Exhibit B: Pharmacy shenanigans! There I am (this past January), waiting at the pharmacy to pick up my prescription for vicodin because lo and behold I have a jerkstore kidney stone (just wait, that post is still in the works) and there are three INCOMPETENT OLD DRIED UP TOOLBAGS in line in front of me. I’m practically sweating my face off, hanging onto the HIPPA “privacy” rope in pain, and barreled over. I literally was about to throw up.

Meanwhile, Old Biddy #1 has some old fucker prescription card and it’s not working. “But it’s supposed to.” But it isn’t at all. “But can’t you just run it again?” But the pharmacist has and can’t do anything for her.

So Grandma continues to stand there, looking at the card in silence, turning it over in her hand like it’s magically going to turn into a god damn coupon or some shit. Finally, as she begins to rifle through her wallet, she realizes that’s her old card and that- like her- it’s completely useless. It took her 10 minutes to figure that out.

Which is when Old Biddy #2 came up to bat. I’ll spare you the details of her toolbaggery and simply say that she was completely put out that the pharmacy didn’t have enough quantity of her prescription to fill it completely and could only give her 10 pills at the moment. She argued with the poor pharmacist about this and demanded that it be delivered to her home that afternoon. When the pharmacist actually agreed to do so on her own time after she gets off from work, the bitch has the audacity to say that’s not good enough and that she expects it by 2 pm. No “thank you” or “you don’t have to do that” or “viva la customer service!” Just, “that’s not good enough.”

No joke, while she’s finally being sent on her way five minutes later, Grandpa Jones starts in on the pharmacist about how he’s there to pick up two prescriptions, not one. But they only have one filled because that’s all that was sent to them from his doctor.

Another five minutes go by.

A cart ambles toward me and I see that the panting, old as fuck skank driving it is maneuvering to place her cart in line in front of me. Which is when I pretty much lose it and stare her down. We’re talking daggers. Unrelenting daggers. Old Biddy #3 takes notice and continues on her way, pushing the cart into line behind me. She takes her cane out of her empty cart and actually asks me to “watch” her cart while she goes into the bathroom. I’m speechless and just stand there giving her my best bitch face.

By the time she comes out, Grandpa Jones has decided he’ll come back later and I’m finally at the counter 20 minutes later. As I’m in the process of paying, Old Biddy #3 comes and stands at the counter beside me. Literally BESIDE ME. And she’s panting again. Also, she smells like feet.

I haven’t even swiped my card yet when she gives the pharmacist her name and tells her she’s picking up four prescriptions. I turn and stare. The pharmacist says she’ll be right with her as soon as she finishes up with me. The asshat  continues to stand at my side while I sign my receipt and the pharmacist explains that I probably shouldn’t drive or operate heavy machinery. Old Bag says, “Oh my.” So much for HIPPA!

Exhibit C: If you’re wondering if maybe it’s just me who has the problem with OLD ASS FUCKERS, let me add that Fancy has recently had an epic encounter of her own. Sick and on her way home from work early, she found herself stuck in the Jewel parking lot when her car died. She was blocking a lane of traffic. Which is when the honking began. And the swearing. She became understandably upset. She doesn’t feel good, her car just died and her husband is out of town, and now she’s being audibly assaulted. She begins to cry.

The cherry on this Toolbag Sundae came in the form of one crusty old fucker with an oxygen tank that felt it his job to actually flip her off. Because clearly she did it on purpose just to inconvenience him. Clearly.

When I went to pick her up, the only thing I could say upon hearing what happened was that he was probably just in a hurry because he was afraid he’d die before he reached his destination. Which, of course, must be HELL.

Taken as a whole, I’m still really pissed about this morning’s toolbag encounter in particular. I don’t know what else to do except to say: *(#Y)*(E$@L:E>”#:R(EU*YE$*#(y)&*^&#jnj@jio{!~”~((u#uinjwnrj}we{|#+_)#*(#ji{*(_#U*(#$&*##*@HB@Nk3u2890(***@#&)Q@&#^&#^@)Q_@(###@/+UIBN!!!II(!(O(ue807&Y#$&&^#()*(_+@!!!!!!

Also, $#$)U#*(#JIKNM@IOU)#*()@_*(@)(!I()!KO&*% TOOLBAGS!

*I apologize for the length of this post, but as you can see, there’s a SHIT TON of Old Fucker Toolbaggery happening in the world these days.

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This, of course, would also mean that it is the most convenient Starbucks for me to visit on my way to work. Of course. Because what’s more convenient than a latte with an extra shot of shame?

It all began innocuously enough with the general annoyances caused by the North Shore set. Little things began to happen while getting my usual grande soy milk latte…things like the four year old in front of me in her baby pink Uggs holding up the line while she decides on chocolate milk or hot chocolate. And the morning that the “townie” who’s on a first name basis with the baristas comes in in his grody old man track shorts and informs them he’d like a “kwa- san” (croissant) with his Americano. And then there’s the barista on bakery counter duty. She’s a real gem, that one. Especially when you shout your order over all the noise and she gives you the stink eye for trying to ensure she hears you, à la “Yeah, I KNOW! Stop yelling at me! Gah!”

Annoyances aside, I’ve continued returning to that particular Starbucks because, again, it’s so damn convenient. Until one day…

There I am, in line to pay for my order, and the lady at the register….a slight bird like woman who always seems put out by the whole wearing an apron and making eye contact thing…rings me up. Except, Bitchy Bird Lady Barista doesn’t take it upon herself to actually give me my total and instead waits for me to hand her my money. So I do.

I blankly hand her a $20, which is when she tells me it’s $9.76. Thinking I somehow must have messed up- even though I just handed her a $20- I start to dig into my wallet before I catch myself. I look back at her, dumbfounded and thinking, “Yeah. And?” So she starts to hand my $20 back to me. When I ask her why, Stink Eye Bakery Counter Barista comes over and is all “What’s the problem?” Which is when Bitchy Bird Lady Barista explains that apparently I was supposed to give her a $10.

To this day I still don’t know what I did wrong, but she sure as hell made certain to give me my change in as pissy and huffy a manner as possible. In the process, I somehow felt I’d WRONGED her and was being scolded!

Ever since The $20 “Underpayment” Debacle, she’s given me this distrustful look, as though I’m trying to pull a fast one on her or something. I realize that most days I do go to work looking a bit like a vagrant, but come on! At least I’m not four years old, wearing $100+ footwear, and deciding between a tall and a grande before I roll into pre-school! AND at least I know not to act like a pretentious douche canoe when I order a croissant!

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You suck. I hate you. Also, you are a selfish and inconsiderate fuckwad. That’s right, fuckwad. You make me so angry that I invent new words in moments of utter seething as a result of your selfishness and inconsideracies. See? Another fake word.

As much as I’ve obviously enjoyed being forced to sleep around your nocturnal activities; your earlier move-in-week propensities for dropping heavy boxes above my bed at 11:30 p.m., your inclination for some truly perplexing heavy walking (you’re not heavy at all so it is a god damned mystery of epic proportion how exactly you’re able to make what appears to be 150-175 lbs. make so much noise as you dig your heels into every fucking last carpet fiber…seriously, are your heels bleeding?),  your frenzied nightly trips (no less than 23 in a sixteen minute span!) to the kitchen and back as though the fucking thing was on fire- yes, as much as I’ve enjoyed every last bit of it all, I HAVE HAD ENOUGH. Chill the fuck out, kid.

In the early days, you were Geppetto, akin to your fellow wood-working character who wanted nothing more than a “real boy” for a son instead of the sorry substitute he fashioned out of wood at night. You wanted nothing more than to build your janky ass particle board bedroom furniture above my head as midnight approached. Wanted nothing more than to hang those damn pictures because oh my god how could you possibly sleep without those pictures on the wall beside you? Now, you are Heavy Walker Texas Ranger- witty nomenclature that can be attributed to my boyfriend who, without sharing in my sleeplessness thanks to you, joins me in solidarity and hate as he does in all things because he’s a veritable font of snarkiness too. Anyway…

I sincerely cannot understand how you carry on night after night without regard for any of your neighbors. Have you never lived in an apartment before? Do you not know the apartment dweller code of conduct? Are you a fucking moron?

In an attempt to avoid another psychotic-seeming visit to inform you of your asshattery, I wear SHOOTING RANGE quality ear plugs, have changed my alarm clock’s sleep sounds from Summer Evening Crickets to Thunderstorm Rumble in an attempt to drown out and acclimate myself to your regular booming, and make a concerted effort to be asleep well before you arrive home between 10:30 and 11:30 each night.

Except today you threw me a curve. You went out and whooped it up and didn’t come home until 3:14 a.m. Congratulations! Even though I was blissfully asleep for a few hours, I was of course concerned when you didn’t come home on time. But then luckily you barreled up the communal stairs that you destroyed when you moved in, slammed your door with laudable assertion and fortitude, and told those squeaky old floorboards who’s the boss.

Speaking of, have you ever heard of The Tony Danza? I’m considering a less misogynistic variation whereby I renege on the rest of it and simply punch you in the back of the head. Kind of makes me feel bad for Tony Danza though. I mean, your suckiness just made me invoke his name in the worst way possible and what the hell did Tony Danza ever do to you? Anyway, so you’re the king of your own shit-sty. How awesome for you. Have I mentioned that I hate you?

On the other hand, I suppose I should be thanking you for giving me the wherewithal to write this post. I have of late felt detached from writing and most everything actually, but you seem to have brought out a level of bitchiness in me that must find an outlet. Also, I just remembered I have a spare cupcake from Molly’s in the fridge, and lets be honest, eating a cupcake at 5:13 in the morning is a kickass way to start the day. That’s right, start the day. You know, because I’d be getting up for work in 37 minutes anyway. Yeah, so thanks for that.

Sincerely (wishing you would shut the fuck up),

Your Sleep-deprived Downstairs Neighbor

P.S. Things are about to get passive agressive (early morning slamming of doors, dresser drawers, and creaky windows; pots and pans mayhaps; blaring of NPR’s Morning Edition; excessive hair dryer usage; shoes flung at the ceiling; I don’t know, we’ll just have to wait and see). I know, I’m excited too!

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Generally, when this sort of invasive statement is flung at me and my frightened ovaries, my go-to response is to laugh it off. Me? With kids? Ha! What a HOOT! But, truth be told, who’s to say I wouldn’t be a Great Parent? Especially when I imagine how I would talk to a child, let alone actually “parent” one. I flash forward and see myself reacting thusly…

Yes, sweetie, I see that you are VERY upset right now about this LONG ASS line at the Jewel…what’s that? Oh, okay. That’s cool. Maybe kick and scream a little louder though. It looks like you’re starting to scare people away.

…………………….

So….about this outfit you have on. What’s your mind frame in terms of functionality? I mean, do you really think a superhero cape will be necessary for sleeping? I’m not saying it isn’t, but you know, blankets are warm too and we don’t want to be discriminatory of various textiles.

…………………….

Let me get this straight- you went into the bathroom, conducted your “business meeting,” reported all went well and that you ALLEGEDLY washed your hands, and then you realized you forgot to remove the appropriate layer of clothing required for said business? Do you realize you just fast forwarded to what your frat years will be like?

…………………….

Wow, you’re really hitting that Go-Gurt hard today. Big plans later? A scuffle on the playground? A mid-afternoon nap date? A texting- triathlon after African drums class? Yes? No? Maybe so?

…………………….

Um, excuse me. Did you just say “shit head” and use it in the right context? Where did you…never mind. Carry on. Just don’t let your teacher hear you call him that.

…………………….

No, of course we don’t love the dog more than we love you. You’re our kid and you’re MAGICAL and irreplaceable. It’s just…the dog can’t talk back and that’s kind of awesome.

…………………….

I don’t know, kid. I mean, yeah, this year’s carnival rides are kind of crappy. But look at this way: you’re only six and now you know how most of the rest of your life is going to feel.

Ah, parenthood! Come to think of it…yes. Yes, I would make a magnificent parent! Obviously.

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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.

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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.

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