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Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

20 July 2012

That awkward moment...

So this totally happened last night:

I was cleaning up the dinner dishes, minding my own business, when a knock upon my door startled me from my reverie.  (My reverie while doing dishes and cleaning up after dinner includes thoughts along the lines of, "Why do I always have to do the fucking dishes?  Are his dishwashing hands broken?  Asshole." and "It's 2012, for God's own sweet sake... why hasn't a self-cleaning kitchen been invented already?  Oh yeah... because scientists are too busy discovering VIAGRA.")

I did a quick self-check to make sure that no boobs were hanging out, fluffed my hair, quieted my rabid dog (a knock upon the door triggers a feral reaction in Maisy that goes from irritating to embarrassing very, very quickly), stuck my foot in position (I have to put my foot between Maisy and the doorway to prevent her from charging like an asshole at whoever is knocking... she has no intention of biting them, and in fact, if she happens to bump into them while she's barking like a maniac, she will immediately make a u-turn and haul ass back into the house to bark from the safety of the hallway, but that doesn't stop people from thinking she's a menace to society), and opened the door to the pissy-looking countenance of my new neighbor's woman.  (I think.  I have no idea.  Maybe she's his sister, or his roommate, or a random stranger who just happened to claim she lives downstairs.)






Me:  *shouting over my stupid yapping dog and smiling obsequiously*  "Hi!  What's up?"

Her:  *arms folded, shitty look on her face*  "Hiii... I live downstairs.  Would you mind not slamming your cupboard doors shut every time you open them?"

Me:  *holding obsequious smile in place because for a minute, I wasn't sure she was speaking English* "Umm... what?"









Her:  *maintaining the shitty look on her face like it was her JOB*  "All we can hear downstairs every time you're in the kitchen is you slamming your cupboard doors.  Could you not do that?"


Me:  *trying really hard not to call her a cunt*  "Umm... sure.  I had no idea I was doing that.  Sorry."


She turned and left, without a thanks or a good-bye, and I stomped back into the kitchen, muttering to myself and resisting the urge to slam the bejeezus out of all the cupboards.

Dan, from the bedroom, where he was helpfully letting me do all the work and deal with the bitch downstairs:  "What was that about?"


Me, still pissed.  And by pissed?  I mean PISSED:  "She said I slam the cupboards and asked me to stop.  Whatever.  Excuse the fuck out of me for living upstairs and doing my dishes."\


Dan, mildly:  "You DO slam the cupboard doors."


Me:

Dan:

Me:  


Hell hath no fury like a woman wrongly accused of slamming cupboard doors.



I ohhhh soooo quietly finished the dishes, tip-toed around the kitchen, softly opened and softly closed cabinets, and fumed until it was time for bed.

I really, really missed Mr. Awesome.  He never would have accused me of slamming a cupboard door.  Oh, HELL no.  He would have invited all his homies over, cranked the music, and sang karaoke until dawn.

THAT's what a good neighbor does, dammit.  They don't go upstairs and WRONGLY ACCUSE YOU of slamming a cupboard door.

Oh, it's ON.




This morning, I got up and made my coffee.  I took the coffee cup out of the cupboard and as I swung it shut, I had a brief moment of clarification.

"Naaaaah..." I thought to myself.

I put my breakfast in the microwave, set the timer, and swung the door shut.


S
L
A
M


Wait a minute...

I opened the fridge, got out my coffee creamer, and as I kicked it shut with my bare foot a lightbulb went on over my head.

Well, SHIT.

I'm a regular one woman Mariachi Band.  With a drum solo.  And cymbals.  And a tap dancer.  Without the guitars.

Awkward...



Bang!  Crash!  Slam!


It was exactly like this, only totally different.




Or maybe it was more like this...

Who knew I was so noisy???

Surely not me.


I have no idea what to do with the information.

I mean, I could always do the obvious and stop slamming cupboard doors, but somehow that seems too easy, almost like a cop-out.

I need to do something else.

Something... bigger.


No, something even BIGGER.



I could take my show on the road!!


Crap... that's already been done.




OR... and this is just a thought...

I could make Dan do the dishes, thus eliminating the problem altogether.


Oooh...

I like that one.



Hee hee!