Dan and I decided last Saturday that we were going to spend a relaxing evening at home with pizza, a really bad movie, and some alcoholic beverages. (Because we are that kind of exciting, yo. Everybody wants to be us. No really, they do. Don't they?)
We watched Just Go For It, which is hands-down the stupidest movie I've seen in a very long time (considering I rarely watch movies, that's not exactly a damning critique, but still... it was awful). I'm one of those people that needs just a teensy bit of "this could actually happen" in order to enjoy a movie. If it's entirely implausible, the realist in me comes screaming to the fore-front and flies out of my mouth. (Which is why vampires, fantasy, and sci-fi are never allowed in my house. I get too annoyed.)
I began getting seriously irritated with the plot after about 5 minutes. I can't standddddddd Adam Sandler to begin with, but the idea of him being a Hollywood plastic surgeon that gets laid every 5 minutes by hot women half his age merely because he's wearing a wedding ring was too much for me to handle.
The more I drank, the louder and more adamant my disbelief became.
Me: "Yeahhhhh right. Like he's going to boink that girl on the beach and 12 hours later he's madly in love with her and convincing his secretary to pretend to be his wife so that this girl will marry him. 12 hours later and he's at her job begging her to marry him. Oh. My. GOD."
Me: "Ohhhh please. Like Adam Sandler didn't know Jennifer Anniston was sexy in a bikini. Huge shock, am I right? Seriously, my eyes are rolling so hard they're sticking in the back of my head. LAME."
Me: "I haaaaaaaaaaaate annoyingly cute kids. GAHHHHH! Why are they even in the movie? That little girl's fake cockney accent is seriously making my ears bleed. Slap her and SHUT HER UP."
Me: "MAKE HIM STOP TALKING! HE SOUNDS LIKE A SHEEP!"
Me: "I mean, if a sheep could talk. It would sound like Adam Sandler. Am I right? What do you mean, "What do I mean?" I mean Adam Sandler sounds like a sheep."
Me: "How much plastic surgery has Nicole Kidman had, for God's own sweet sake? She looks like Joan Rivahhhs."
Me: "HAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAA!" (The part where Nicole Kidman's husband picked up a coconut with his butt cheeks was actually freaking hilarious.)
Dan: "Would you like another drink?"
Anyway, after the movie ended and I was finished loudly critiquing it, Dan and I decided to play "Find All Of Dani's Favorite Songs By Each Artist That She Names.... and GO!"
I named the artist and it was up to Dan to find my favorite song on youtube and then play it for me. (He did surprisingly well... I admit to being shocked.)
Several drinks later, I was belting out each song at the top of my lungs and dancing my ass off in the living room.
Suddenly, very loud music began rattling our floorboards. It was coming from Mr. Awesome's apartment.
"Ha ha!" we chortled. "Mr. Awesome must be having a party!"
Flash forward to today:
As I was sipping my coffee and listening to Mr. Awesome leave for work this morning , it hit me, like a bolt from the blue, that on Saturday it was at the apex of my alcohol induced serious lack of volume control that Mr. Awesome had cranked his music, and only for approximately 5 minutes. Then he shut it off. After that, it was completely quiet. Coincidentally, we went to bed shortly after he began cranking his music.
Oh, SNAP! WE WERE BEING TOO LOUD AND HE WAS TEACHING US A LESSON!
Seriously... I just got it.
Dude spent an entire evening listening to me yap and sing with allllll the windows open, serenading the world at the top of my lungs (and possibly slightly off-key) and shivering his timbers with my groove thang for several HOURS and it never once occurred to us to keep it down.
We ARE assholes.
And we didn't even know.
And it took me 3 days to figure it out.
I'm so embarrassed.