The Brat Next Door

I live in an apartment. Luckily, I do not live in one of the old buildings in my complex. I get to live in the new building. And it’s downright lovely. There is a downside though—the neighbors.

I really got the bottom of barrel when it came to neighbors. I’ve lived in two other apartments, and never have I had issues with neighbors. But now I have two big issues. This post will discuss issue number one: Aiden.

One of my next-door neighbors shares my bedroom wall. A single man lives there. I know him only as “Dad.” Dad snores loudly and often. Every night when I snuggle down into my outrageously comfortable bed, I am kept awake by Dad’s snoring. It’s like we’re sharing a bed—that’s how loud it is.

The walls are so thin that I know Dad has an iPhone. Whenever Dad gets a text, I know. You may think this makes me creepy, but it doesn’t. It’s not my fault. I know all of these things without even trying.

I can deal with Dad’s snoring and late-night texts, but Dad has a child that sometimes is in his apartment (hence his name, Dad). I’m not sure why the child is only over sometimes or why there is never a woman present—there are many explanations. All I know is, that kid is a little piece of shit.

I’ve recently learned that the boy’s name is Aiden. I know Aiden likes to take baths because our apartments share the bathroom wall too. When Aiden takes baths he likes to scream.

He also likes to scream when he goes to bed. It sounds a little something like this:

“No! I’m not going to my bed!”

mumble, mumble (This is Dad trying to calm Aiden.)

“Nooooo!”

mumble, shuffle

“I don’t want to sleep in my bed! I don’t! I want to sleep in your bed! I want to cuddle with you! I really do!”

Then Aiden starts screaming like a friggin’ banshee, and there are random banging noises.

I kid you not, this goes on for at least thirty minutes, if not more, every single time Aiden must go to bed. Every. Time.

This dad is either the most patient dad ever, or he’s just good at quietly beating his child. Seriously, the man never yells at Aiden. I applaud him for being able to keep his cool.

Over the last couple weeks or so, Aiden’s nightly ritual has changed. Some new dialogue has been introduced. Dad has been more successful in getting Aiden in his own bed. When this happens, here is what Aiden has to say (and, yes, I wrote down what he was saying so I could quote him exactly):

“TURN THE BIG LIGHT ON. YES. DAD. TURN IT ON. TURN IT ON. TURN IT.”

mumble, mumble, shush.

“TURN IT ON. DADDY. DON’T LEAVE IT OFF. TURN IT ON!” 

silence.

This is when Dad must start smothering Aiden with his Buzz Lightyear pillow.

Most nights Aiden is not at Dad’s apartment, so I used to get plenty of peace and quiet. However, a new neighbor has moved in…

Stay tuned for the next post when I discuss the new boy who moved into the apartment below me. He screams even more than Aiden.

The Greatest Purchase I've Ever Made

I would like to start this blog post with two things: an apology and a disclaimer.

Apology:

I know, I know. I haven’t updated since Halloween. I’m a terrible blogster. (I know the proper word is blogger, but I like blogster because it sounds like mobster and makes me feel a little badass.) So I apologize for depriving you of my wit and trivial observations.

Disclaimer:

This blog post is going to contain the F word. Yes. The F word. I will only use it once, but if you are offended, I advise you to proceed to another website. Maybe Facebook or Stumbleupon.com. I realize that some people find this word tasteless, and maybe it is. But you know what? Sometimes people need to be tasteless. And I don’t believe in censorship, so I refuse to censor myself on my blog when I want to use the F word in a humorous manner about something that is trivial.

Blog post:

This blog is about mascara. Not just any mascara, people. No, it is about CoverGirl’s Lash Blast Volume mascara—the mascara of the GODS.

I was putting on my regular mascara this morning and thought, Ew. I look gross. My eyelashes look so thin, brittle, and just aren’t impressive in any way. I hate this mascara.

So I went off to work looking at the world through my less-than-impressive eyelashes, knowing that everyone was looking at me through their above-average eyelashes and saying to their friends, “Look at the girl with the gross eyelashes. She’s gross.”

After work I went home and cried off my crappy mascara and then had a revelation. My friend Sabrina, whom I’ve dubbed Sabertooth, had recommended CoverGirl’s Lash Blast Volume mascara to me a while ago.

As a girl who hates change, I thought, Do I dare? Do I dare go to Walgreens and purchase this mascara? I like Sabertooth’s eyelashes, but what if it doesn’t look as good on mine? She’s really hot!

I decided to get out of my crappy mascara comfort zone and go for it…

IT’S FUCKING AMAZING.

I put on just one coat and couldn’t stop staring at my eyes. Two coats of this stuff should be illegal. If you see me tomorrow, don’t even try to tell me my eyelashes don’t look amazing, because you’re lying. They do look amazing.

They’re so full and lengthy, yet not brittle. Watch yourself when you see me in person now. My eyelashes will simply dazzle you just like Edward Cullen dazzles Bella. Yeah. I went there.

So if you’re a woman who wants to stop having gross eyelashes, buy this freakin’ stuff. And, hey, you guys out there can buy it too if you’re curious—either about your sexuality or cosmetics.

A Few Steps for a Happy Halloween

This is some of my sage advice for all of you women out there that are still undecided about your costume:

1. Ask yourself, "Am I a whore?"

2. If your answer is yes, go to step 3. If your answer is no, skip to step 4.

3. Good luck with that walk of shame back to your dorm dressed as Little Miss Muffet at eight in the morning when people are no longer drunk and the sun is up. It's not nearly as cute as you thought it was.

4. Don't dress like one.

5. Happy Halloween.

To Make the Cornbread

Objective: Make cornbread.

Steps: mix together Jiffy cornbread mix, 1/3 cup of milk, and one egg.

Actual steps taken:

1. Realize I don’t have a muffin pan thinger or a pan like Mom has. Wonder if glass pan thing I have will suffice.

2. Decide that glass pan thing does, in fact, suffice.

3. On box it has a picture of all ingredients mixed together in a bowl. Wonder if this actually has to happen in a bowl or if it can be mixed together directly in glass pan thing.

4. Pour cornbread mix and 1/3 cup of milk in glass pan thing.

5. Go to fridge for eggs. Realize the date says September 28. Wonder if eggs actually go bad. Consider Googling it and also “can bad eggs can kill you.” Decide I don’t want to know the answer and add one egg to the mixture.

6. Wonder if I might die from cornbread and realize how sad that is.

7. Successfully mix ingredients together and feel proud and domestic.

8. Wait for oven to preheat.

9. Go to put the glass pan thing in oven and set the timer.

10. Realize I threw away the box that notes the amount of time that it should be in the oven.

11. Retrieve box from trash and triumphantly and purposefully leave it on the counter this time.

12. Notice that my glass pan thing is different than muffin pan thinger pictured on the box and wonder if that will change the cooking time. Box says fifteen to twenty minutes. Set timer for ten minutes and pray that this works and open Netflix.

EDIT:
Not feeling too well. It could either be salmonella, the diet coke, my mild case of hypochondria, or the AIDS I contracted at work when I read the symptoms for AIDS.

EDIT EDIT:
Seriously, guys. I'm about 80 percent sure I have food poisoning. This is NOT GOOD. I feel absolutely terrible, and I have no one to take care of me.

I'm currently trying to figure out which bowl to set by my bed in case I need to puke. I can't decide on which bowl is my least favorite. I use all of these for popcorn.

This is how I feel about having to work all weekend.

Life Lessons We Shouldn't Teach Children

I feel as though there is a handful of life lessons we teach children that either do not translate successfully into adulthood or even work effectively in childhood. They often lead to the creation of sociopaths. Here are some of those lessons:

1. Be honest. All the time. To everyone.

            This does not work, especially in higher stages of human development like adolescence and adulthood.

Explaining the concept of the “white lie” is too abstract for little kids, so we tell them, “Don’t lie.” That is until Suzie tells one of her chubby friends that they’re chubby or tells the second best friend that they’re the second best friend and not as pretty as her.

            Total honesty does not work in the adult world. Every single relationship—literally every single one—would fail if it involved total honesty. You know it. I know it. Don’t you dare tell me you tell your boyfriend every single thing, because you’re a liar.

2. Make a happy plate.

            Look where we are now. We’re obese! This “happy plate” mentality is why I just spent my Tuesday night watching The Biggest Loser with my friend Laura. It’s also the reason she and I started crying and convinced each other to stop eating.

            And don’t give me that “starving kid in Africa” crap. Whether or not my plate is “happy” does not affect that kid’s dinner. We’re not even eating the same thing. I’m most likely eating a cheeseburger and fries from sonic. He’s probably eating a goat with a side of goat testicles.

3. Laugh at the embarrassment and pain of others.

            Often when adults play with children, they will either fake or experience real pain in order to make that kid laugh. Adults, so desperate to win the approval of a fickle five-year-old, will inflict pain on themselves to be the “favorite” for approximately thirty minutes.

            My friend Anne is a kindergarten teacher, and she told me that her kids love it when she drops something or accidentally hurts herself.

            We support this behavior by repeating the pain and laughing with them. Fast-forward fifteen years. That five-year-old is a now a twenty-year-old douchebag.

4. The principle of bumper cars.

Why do we have road rage? I think it is pretty easy to trace it back to its source. Bumper cars teach you to ram into strangers.

            I was one of those kids that would only run into my friends or my sister. But there are always those maniacs that run into complete strangers leaving kids like me backed into a corner and feeling rather violated.

What happens to those kids? They turn into Hummer-driving road ragers who get a kick out of driving fear through the hearts of their fellow drivers. They’re also the ones who have the “balls” hanging off the trailer hitch of their pick-up.

Stay tuned for the next installment of “Life Lessons We Shouldn’t Teach Children,” which includes topics like the myth of the stork and the necessity of drinking your milk.

Having People over Just Isn't Worth It

I’ve been considering having a party of sorts. Not a huge blowout or anything because I live in an apartment complex, and, frankly, I don’t have enough friends for a party of that caliber. I was thinking about four to seven people. I’ve been feeling pretty lonely ever since the summer has ended. I’m seeing my boyfriend a lot less because he’s started his fall semester at school, and my friends and I all have jobs.

But then I thought about how having people over is expensive even if you tell everyone, “BYOB.” Or “Potluck!”

But if you do those things, I feel like you’re “that guy.” Especially with the whole “bring your own food” thing. Then your friends come over thinking, I’m just going to bring a side dish or beverage because obviously, since Megan is hosting, she’ll have entrees available. She’s pretty much just asking us to supplement her food offerings, I’m sure.

But that’s not the case. I wouldn’t have entrees to provide, and then everyone would be like, “Wow, what a bitch. She didn’t even provide for her own guests. I don’t want to come to another one of Megan’s parties. All she did was say we could occupy space that she’s happening to rent, but we still have to buy the food and drinks. She’s not any different than a restaurant.”

And then they’d all leave. Plus, I don’t like potlucks. When someone suggests one and I say, “Super fun!” I’m really saying, “Super fun! We can all bring our own dishes and talk about how everyone’s food is so good but only really eat what we each brought because what other people make is weird or their dishes never look quite clean. And when people cook alone they are never as sanitary as when they cook in front of other people. How long has that been sitting in your car?”

Then I just go home hungry and praying I didn’t eat someone’s hair.

And if it’s BYOB, then people are going to sharing liquor and beer. When I hear BYOB, I’m thinking, I brought this liquor for me and me alone. No, you cannot mix my rum with your whatever the hell mixer you brought instead of bringing liquor or beer. Because I brought liquor. Liquor for me! It’s not my fault you ignored the YO in BYOB.

I’m just overly territorial like that.

So back to the main point: Parties and get-togethers are expensive. I would feel like I would have to provide the bulk of food and liquor in order to feel like an adequate hostess. Otherwise the night would end with either me being really hungry for fear of eating other people’s food, or my friends hating me because I don’t share rum.