Some Days, These Posts Just Write Themselves...

I think I have a problem, guys.

I'm apparently a crazy old lady. Let's call her Gertrude. No, wait. Blanche...because Blanche was the "sassy and sexy" one on The Golden Girls, right? And if I'm going to be a crazy old lady, I'd at least like to be a cool one. Anyway, Blanche emerges when people do bad things. Just like Ali Larter on Heroes, only without all the murder, amnesia and online stripping for repressed Japanese office workers. (I’m only working the domestic market, yo!)

Allow me to explain, if I may, because I think it’s quite necessary after rereading that last paragraph. I had an experience today which spurred this realization (which I'll get to momentarily), but looking back, I think things first started in our old apartment. We lived in a lovely building, but we had the dubious luck of living in the one really awful apartment in the building. Why so awful, exactly?

Well.

You know how "they" always say that location is the most important thing to look for in a home? The apartment directly above ours housed approximately 17 people (not exaggerating, unfortunately) who all kept odd hours. I don't know what they did, the logistics of sleeping 17 people in a two-bedroom apartment, and, perhaps most fascinating to me, how they worked out the shower/bathroom schedule. What I DO know, however, is that at least one of them had a penchant for incessantly IM'ing people.

From a computer kept on the bedroom floor directly above our heads.

With the speakers on high volume.

Between the hours of 1 and 3 in the morning.

Every damned night.

Now, I'm not saying we're entirely quiet, but night after night of hearing "Brrrooooo-dooop!" was driving us slowly mad. I'm sure a common reaction after a month of listening to this would be to go upstairs, knock on the door, and politely address the situation. Blanche, however, had other ideas. After one too many nights of awakening to this at 1 am, I/she clearly thought the situation could be handled in only one way…

That way involved my broom, the ceiling, and way too many shrieked curses to possibly list here. I was like a cartoon of a deranged old lady getting angry at street hooligans or something. The only thing that possibly could’ve made it more of a stereotype is if I was brandishing a rolling pin and wearing beige shoes with some sort of supportive arch system inside.

I manage to keep Blanche in check, most of the time. And usually, I’m sort of non-confrontational (read: Run the other way and hide curled up in the fetal position). I’ve realized that she only really emerges when people are utter and total assholes...

Like this morning, for instance. I’m working from home today, but I had to quickly run to the electronics store to purchase an extension cord for our new oven, which is arriving in just a few hours.

(Side note: J and I loathe our current oven with much intensity, and are counting down the minutes until the new, shiny, sexy and ostensibly FUNCTIONING oven arrives later today. The old oven is quite possibly a relic from the Roosevelt Administration (Teddy, not FDR), and it has a pilot light which routinely blows out. This is loads of fun, because the thing about a blown-out pilot light? Is that you only realize that this has happened once the smell of gas fills your home, thus requiring us to light it again with a match, and then run away, fearing for our lives.

I may or may not have composed a farewell song for the old oven. It may or may not be entitled “Goodbye, my Oven” and it may or may not be sung to the tune of James Blunt’s “Goodbye, my Lover.” But I, as I very often do, am digressing.)

Anyway, the electronics store. The parking situation by the store is insane. It’s extremely difficult to find a spot in general, but it’s particularly difficult when you drive an environment-destroying, gas guzzling, huge-ass SUV, as I do. I finally spotted a...spot, and began edging over to parallel park in it. But I wasn’t anticipating something. NERDY DUDE ON A MOTORCYCLE.

NDOAM came flying around the corner, and, ignoring the giant black SUV with its signal on, attempting to park, flew into the spot into which I had been backing up. He hopped off his hog, and took off, quickly walking towards the stores.

Now, if this had been a Mentos commercial, I would’ve made a comically frowny face, popped some Mentos, and then lifted the motorcycle with the help of burly strongmen who just so happened to be participating in a weightlifting competition across the street. Then, NDOAM would return, and spotting the muscle-bound guys bench pressing his motorcycle, would exchange a look of gleeful understanding with me. We would nod at each other, and then I’d brandish my Mentos and we'd cackle like ninnies.

As this was real life, however, I continued circling the block, fuming. I mean, it was “my” spot. And he could’ve parked that tiny thing anywhere! If he’d even asked nicely, I’m pretty sure I would’ve let him park it in my trunk. I found another spot (though it took 10 minutes), and walked into the electronics store, still quite pissed off. I got what I needed, and was on my way out, when who should be walking down the street, but Nerdy VonSpottenStealer (from Tragicfashionville).

I assessed him from afar, taking in his sky blue corduroys, leather jacket with the Tasmanian Devil on it (klassy!), and long, balding, ponytailed hair (you know what I mean, right?). I decided that the chances of him beating my ass/stabbing me were fairly slim. I approached him:

Me: Excuse me.

Nerd: Yeah? Do I know you? [Note: Who SAYS this in real life?!]

M: Oh, I think you do. I was in the black SUV that you stole the spot from, and I just want to say that what you did wasn’t very ni--

Nerd: [interrupting] You weren’t completely in it yet. Finder’s keepers, lady. [I SWEAR he said this!]

At that, I kind of lost it. And Blanche took it from here. Restraining the urge to bop him on the head with my bag (a classic old lady move, if there ever was one), I/Blanche turned towards him, smiled, and said, “You’re never getting laid as long as you wear that jacket.”

I know; totally not the wittiest comment ever, and a bit of a cheap shot. But can you blame me?

In honor of discovering Blanche, my newfound internal crazy old lady, AND the ass who stole my spot, I present to you a song I just wrote, called “Mister, You're Being a Douche.” It is sung, of course, to the tune of “Thank You for Being a Friend.” -- The Golden Girls theme song:

Mister, you’re being a douche, You traveled down the road to find a spot. Your pants are blue, and your jacket has Taz on it... But if you bothered looking, As you drove your stupid “hog” on by, You would see, me parking my big SUV In the spot that you just stole, Mister, you’re being a douche.

Sigh...someone pass me my shawl.