Seriously, people? Really?! Look what someone spray painted on my mom's car yesterday.
Yeah, that's right: "Papa Smurf".
*blinking*
Um…. okaaaaaayyyyyyy….
I know it's not funny, but I can't help but laugh. I mean, what kind of smurfhead goes around painting Smurf names on cars? (Gargamel and Azreal, I'm looking at YOU.)
But wait—it gets better! What was Mom wearing when she discovered her car had been smurfed up?.... A blue shirt and white pants, of course.
*snicker*
Okay, so the other day Facebook served up a few new friend suggestions for me, all of which were complete strangers, as usual. Except one. Thaaaaaaaaaaat’s right: an ex-boyfriend I haven’t seen since high school.
(Way to go, Facebook.)
*rolling my eyes*
*twice*
Let’s call this particular ex-boyfriend George. George Michael Wannabe.
My relationship with Mr. Wannabe was—umm—complicated…. mainly because I only dated him to get revenge on my annoying little sister and my ex-best friend, Trayla Trash (don’t remember Trayla? Click HERE), who both had drooling, oozing, festering crushes on George, while George, clearly oblivious to the therapy-causing, life-ruining pain it caused the other two girls, only had eyes for me.
Long story short, I quickly got sick of George, his telling EVERYBODY ALL THE TIME that he was going to be a bigger singer than George Michael one day, and his constant off-key singing of “Father Figure” in a sad attempt to prove it. But the final straw for me was the day he serenaded me with a stooOOooOOpid love song he was making up on the fly in front of my mother and grandmother, who were both crying their faces off with silent laughter. I broke up with George the next day.
(Ahhh, schoolgirl revenge via the dating of dumb boys, it ain’t pretty.)
(Anyway….)
I haven’t seen, talked to, nor thought about George in over 20 years. The last time I saw him, he was telling me I would regret breaking up with him because he was going to be famous. No—famouser than famous! Wait!—make that THE MOST FAMOUSEST FAMOUS DUDE WHO EVER FAMED!!!!
*cough—delusional twit—cough*
Naturally, upon seeing George there on Facebook, curiosity got the better of me and I decided to take a quick peek at his info page to see what he’s doing these days since I’m pretty sure that the more-famous-than-George-Michael thing didn’t quite work out the way he was hoping for. And….
Wow.
No, really.
I…. I hardly know what to say.
George is a….
….a….
….a….
….a Ghostbuster. Oy.
He travels around with a bunch of funky gadgets looking for ghosts and posts pictures of himself wearing velvet suits and top hats on the internet. Yep. Seriously. I swear I'm not making this up.
And I honestly can’t figure out if I think that is really moronic or kinda cool….?
Dippy: "Why aren't we friends anymore?"
My daughter: "Well, there are multiple contributing factors to that."
Dippy: "You know I don't know what those words mean!"
Case closed.
[You remember “Dippy,” right? If not, you can refresh your memory HERE.]
So, Scope and I have these neighbors who live one floor below us and I’m pretty certain they are the loony, snot-nosed descendants of Mr. Heckles from Friends. They are snooty, uberpicky and chronically unhappy about random everyday totally normal noises emanating from our condo.
And their constant complaining is SOOOOOOOOOOOO annoying.
*gnashing my teeth*
I’ve met them once. ONCE. When we were struggling to stuff a mammoth glass display case into the elevator on Moving Day. They walked into the lobby, stared at us, rolled their eyes and then took the stairs up.
Nice.
Very nice.
No introductions. No ‘hey, welcome to the building!’ sentiments. No flipping offer to flipping help us with that flipping, flipping heavy display case, the flipping flippers!!!! Nothing but snottiness. And it hasn’t gotten any better from there.
Nope.
They email us now. Oh joy. They email us to lecture and whine and cry and throw hissy fits about what awful neighbors we are because they can *gasp* hear us when we are home.
Yep.
We’re not talking complaints about excessive or ridiculous noises here. No, no, no. It’s not like Scope and I are screaming at each other, having bowling tournaments in our hallway, yodeling “Welcome to the Jungle” or having Richard Simmons and Gilbert Gottfried over for dinner. Nope. We’re talking complaints about average, normal, everyday life noises here. Noises everyone else in this building has the privilege of making without getting hate mail from their neighbors.
Gah!
Last night they sent us ANOTHER rude email. Our horrific crime this time? They heard us walking across our dining room floor.
Yeah.
Walking.
Across the dining room.
Ooh.
Tragic.
Are you kidding me???? Who on Earth emails someone to complain about stuff like THAT???? Who????
That is completely ridiculous, of course. Completely. Ridiculous. When did walking across one’s own dining room become offensive? Hmm? What are we supposed to do, scoot around the house with pillows on our rears until we effectively learn how to levitate from room to room to avoid irritating the Heckles Herd (which is what I am hereby nicknaming them since they’ve never bothered to even tell me their real names: Adolph and Cruella Heckles. Heh heh heh)?
Needless to say last night’s email was the last straw. Scope is boiling mad now (and Scope NEVER gets mad, people!!) and is brewing up a scalding, blistering reply email as we speak.
(Give ‘em hell, Hubba Hubba Hubby!!!!)
As for me, I tend to fight like a girl. Sneakily. Sooo.... the next time I cross our dining room floor, I fully intend to do it while tap dancing in a bikini made of cow bells while banging pots and pans together and yelling "AYIYIYIYIYIYIYIYIYIYIYI!!" like Xena.
So there!
Dear Hot Topic Cashier Who Didn’t Know Which State The City Of Chicago Is In,
Dude, really?
I’m kinda sad now.
Love,
Cora
