Thanks for Nuttin’

Hola, Innernetz!  I know, I know, I promised to announce the winner of the Nobel Works Cards Giveaway ages ago, but things got a little busy around here, what with dodging bullets, intercepting gang communications, and negotiating a hostage release or two amidst all the other opportunities for community involvement my new slayborhood presents.  Actually, I’ve been curled up on the couch nursing my aching ovaries with a heating pad and Super-Extra-Strength-This-Had-Better-Work-Or-I’m-Going-to-Punch-Somebody-Midol.  Normally, my ovaries only ache (in a good way) when I see pictures of puppies.  Or cream cheese frosting cupcakes.  But over the past two weeks my normal PMS symptoms have been exacerbated by the stress of living under the clamorous womb weasels upstairs. My ovaries staged a revolt.  Bitchiness, Moodiness, and Irritability joined the insurrection.  But, I have figured out how to deal with abdominal anarchy: naps.  Naps are the way to deal with your painful monthly visit from Aunt Flo.  It’s like every other family get-together.  Excuse yourself during Thanksgiving dinner and hibernate until January 1st. 

So, I’ve been napping, or trying to.  Sleep is hard to come by around here.  Some of you had wonderful passive-aggressive suggestions for dealing with my noisy neighbors.  Just my style.  Dingo talks a good game, but when it comes down to it, I am embarrassingly non-confrontational.  I’d rather tattle and let someone else deal with the Furby’s and Baby Mamas of the world.  But SOME of you suggested that I bang on the ceiling with a broom.  Now Innernetz, is that any way to be neighborly and avoid getting stabbed in the face?  I would have to wear a Jason Vorhees mask at all times.

Last week, as I lay on the couch moaning about my stupid bitchface reproductive organs and bemoaning the fact that the exorcisms on Paranormal State don’t result in head-spinning, pea-soup spewing fabulousness, the percussion posse above me decided to turn their apartment into a roller derby of the damned.  “Sweet baby jebus, you splooge sprogs,” I silently cursed to myself.  How am I supposed to distinguish your thumps, bumps, and screams from the ones on TV?  The folks at Paranormal State were trying to exorcise Redneck Demon and I was missing it!  When Redneck Demon refuses to leave your double-wide, you are in a whole heap o’ hurt.  You may wake up in the middle of the night to your mounted talking fish saying something hurtful about NASCAR.  Glaring at the ceiling, I turned up the volume.  So did they.  Oh, no you din’t!  I thought, “What would Innernetz do?” And I knew, I knew what you would do, Innernetz. 

So, I stomped into the kitchen and grabbed the broom.  Bam!  Bam!  Bam! Bam! I pounded on the ceiling.  My bad ass Swiffer meant swift justice. Bam!  Bam! Bam!  Bam! The ceiling started to crack. Bam!  Bam!  Bam! Bam! Paint and plaster began to form a lead paint and asbestos laden fog around my head and shoulders.  Bam!  Bam!  Bam! Bam! Shut. The. Fuck. Up!  Shut. The. Fuck. Up!  This. Is. Sparta!  Shut. The. Fuck. Up!  And it worked, Innernetz!  It worked!  I partied like the Canadian Women’s hockey team. 

And then there was a knock on my door.  Oh shit!  They’ve come to kill me.  I whispered to Dingo Girl, “Go bark at the door!  Go bark at the door!” She rolled over on the couch and farted.  She’s a great watch dog, educated in only the most modern of urban warfare — stealth bombs — but she’s not a good early warning system.  In fact, as I was freaking out and looking for my Jason Vorhees mask, she rolled off the couch and ambled to the bedroom leaving a trail of mustard gas in her wake.

Trying not to make a sound, I tiptoed to the door and looked through the peephole. 

¡Ay Dios Mío! The Thing was standing at my door.  The Thing was ginormous — as wide as she was tall — and as ugly as sin.  And she was staring right at me through the peephole.  Or at least one eye was.  She had one lazy eye that scampered to the left as she leaned toward the door, and that eye drifted toward her ear so she probably got a better view of the hinges.  Suddenly, she whipped her bulbous noggin’ to the side.  Something had caught her attention.  She froze, hackles raised, eyes unlazy eye narrowed as she honed in on the intruding sound.  We both waited, she tense with adrenaline of the hunter and I, knees knocking like cornered prey.  The ping from the elevator cast a tinny echo down the hallway.  Help, oh, help! I sent a soundless plea down the hallway that was answered by a slamming door.  My fate was sealed. 

And then, Dingo Girl came to my rescue.  Either alerted to my danger or waking up from a bad dream, she raced out of the bedroom and began growling at the door.  The Thing backed away, shaking her head as if in a daze.  I stepped away slowly and was walking toward the living room when BOOM!, the door shook in its frame like a lie detector connected to Sarah Palin.  Dingo Girl’s bravado spent, she raced back to the bedroom.  I followed.  We were just tucking under the covers when the noise upstairs started again.  I don’t know how long Dingo Girl and I were hiding napping when Mr. Dingo came home.

“What’s this?” he said, waving a piece of paper in the air.  “It was stuck to the door.”

“What does it say,” I asked.  But I already knew.

Mr. Dingo handed me the note.  And there, in handwriting that punctured the paper in its fury was the note:

“Shutt the fuk up.”

So, thank you, Innernetz, for your advice but I will no longer be needing your services.  You tried to get me stabbed.  In my face.

Which brings me to the winner of the Noble Works Gift Card Giveaway!  Brazen Bare Toe, come on down!  Your ass-kissing and passive-aggressiveness warmed my heart and tickled my funny bone.  For this comment:

I will always call on St. Bitch the Fierce for any problems I have that need a passive aggressive fix too. Also you could use your side kick Dingo Girl and leave a nice little present in front of their door everyday.  Just after the ol’ walky walk I’m sure you have a nice bag of leavings you could just accidentally drop in front of their door. And of course leave a calling card: Card 7253 “FIERCE”.  Inside you could write “Shut the hell up or the many plagues of St. Bitch the Fierce will descend upon you!”
Plauge 1: Shit
Plauge 2: More Shit
Plauge 3: So Much Shit
And so on.

I think this is a much better way of dealing with The Thing and her linoleum lizards.  Dingo Girl and I WILL have our revenge.  Toe, you will receive the Noble Works gift card.  Email your info to me and you, too, can send snarky cards to all your friends and family.  But, if you do, you just might want to wear your Jason Vorhees mask the next time you answer the door.

*****

If you are not sick of hearing about my moving woes, head on over to The Greenists.

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