I should be more like Kevin Nealon...

...so I could do a proper "Weekend Update".

I finally got my Bellini on Friday evening. Right after work. Same adorable bartender (who I never really thought was adorable before) that Spliff used to ogle (every Wednesday). New art on the walls. Same delicious martinis. And sure enough, after a Bellini and a Grass Skirt, nothing to eat since breakfast, and two years without the sweet nectar of half price martinis, I was giggly and designating Spliff as the driver. At least we were smart this time and did not end up at a bar where one of our exes is employed. No amount of free shots could prepare me for the Pyscho Rasta and his crew. Not after the week (month…possibly, year) that I’ve had. So…home it was.

We’ve spent the last week exaggerating whispers and tiptoeing and hoping that we don’t get evicted for our “boisterous” behavior (which, as I think I’ve previously mentioned, involves any behavior that might make the slightest amount of noise, i.e. walking, talking, opening/closing doors, and things of this nature) and have managed to stay relatively quiet. Although, it being so quiet in our apartment, I can hear the TV downstairs. I have to say that it is rather annoying. And I might just have to call the (psychotic) landlady and let her know about the noise. I mean seriously. If they can hear us when we whisper, they clearly don’t need the television up that loud.

Incase I haven’t been clear, the story is this:
Last Wednesday, I went out with Jenn, Spliff went out with Party Boy. We all met up halfway through the night and headed out for some expensive beer and reggae. About 12:30, we get home, go upstairs for ten minutes, and then I walk PB and Marcus back down, lock the door and start getting ready for bed. In the meantime, PB (being one of the loudest fuckers I’ve ever met in my LIFE) realizes that he has left his keys on the kitchen counter. This is all fine and good until he starts knocking. Of course, I was all the way upstairs and in the other end of the apartment so I couldn’t hear him. Oh, but the neighbors could. And they made sure to tell us while I stood apologizing profusely and shooing PB out of my yard. All this…pointless. Evidently, even though the neighbor had come out to tell us we were loud, she felt the need to tell the (psycho) landlady too. Meaning that we are now…like…grounded…or something. And “no more incidents of boisterous behavior will be tolerated”.

Either way, we are riff raff. Our friends are loud knockers and we wear heels. Sue us. On the other hand, don’t. I have too much other stuff to worry about right now.

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