Saturday, September 25, 2010

You Move to a Better Neighborhood, and Then I'll Buy a MuuMuu

Modesty is a quality one begins to lose steadily from middle age on; I learned this from my grandmothers.

Case in point. I've got the sick: coughing, runny nose, sneezing, laryngitis, and malaise. The malaise took over this afternoon, so I lay down for a nap (yes, that's the past tense of "to lie down," Google it, and stop arguing). Two hours later, I could have slept for another two hours more except that the new neighbors who, heretofore, have been quiet (but very well lit ALL night long with every bleeding outdoor light shining like 10 suns through my bedroom window), decided to test out their car stereo. I croaked out (I have definitely not reached the sexy phase of laryngitis yet) a few poorly chosen profanities (I'm sick, I don't have much to work with in the brain department). It stopped. I knew this was coincidence because not even my husband one room over could hear me. But I fell back asleep somehow comforted that my bad vibes had drifted off in the direction of my tormentor and had alleviated some of my misery.

About 15 minutes later, it started again. On commercials. This person wasn't even listening to music. They were listening to radio commercials. Or maybe they were waiting for what shall remain on my blog as the unnamed but craze-inducing football game that has had the entire state in a zombie-like mania for "Hawgs" the entire week.

I'm not one to take things lying down, especially when I'm lying down. So, in bra and panties, I Frankensteined my way to the wide open window, not really knowing if the stereo aficionado (and let's face it, in English "aficionado" is really the Italian word for "ass who really annoys other people with her/his obsession") could see me. This time I quacked, "Shut the f*** up!" And, with a flourish, slammed the window down as hard as I could, pull the shade down, drew the curtain, and turned on the fan. I'm middle-aged, I'm sick, and I just don't care anymore. And I figured anyone who saw me couldn't be seeing anything much different than me in my bikini, anyway (again, I'm sick, logic may not be in command here).

At any rate, my point was taken. I'd like to think the stereo has remained silent these two hours because the boys in the neighborhood are eager to show respect to the sexy cougar in 428 (because snot, a four-pack-a-day voice, and bags under a woman's eyes that make her look like Droopy are haaaawwwwt). But I have a feeling the prevailing opinion is "that old lady in 428 is from crazy town! Maybe we need to look for a better neighborhood." 


  1. In the slapstick way. I wish I were funny in the more sophisticated double entendre way you are. I'd like to aim for irony, eventually. But I doubt I'll ever get to Stephen Colbert's or _The Onion_'s level. Oh, well, a chick can dream.