Really, Tell Me How This Is ANY WORSE Than Watching The Bachelor, or Heidi Montag do ANYTHING.

I suppose -- if I was pressed to pinpoint when I realized we had perhaps crossed some sort of bad, crazyperson line -- it was the moment I shot J a wild-eyed, panicked look when he shifted his arm, and his knuckle cracked. Loudly. Was the jig up? Had they heard us?

Perhaps I should back up a bit.

Apartment living has its benefits –built-in playmates for the kids, doormen/porters/handymen, and a somewhat mitigated fear of ax-wielding killer rapists going to the trouble of breaking into my ninth-floor dwelling—but it also has its downsides. The clearly sociopathic gentleman SOMEwhere on our side of the building who has just installed a wind chime, for instance, or our…belligerent neighbors.

A few nights ago, J and I were reading on the couch when we heard a ruckus in the hallway. If you asked me to describe the ruckus, I would say that it sounded like two people screaming, and doors slamming.

I suppose other, better, people would have tsk-tsked the disturbance, and turned back to their books. They would probably also have been drinking wheatgrass smoothies and listening to La Traviata. 

Not us. We put down our wine, instantly locked eyes and skittered directly towards the noise. As it turned out, they were fighting right in front of our apartment door. “Well,” I quietly rationalized to J, “if they’re fighting here, instead of in their apartment, they must WANT people to hear them. You know, subconsciously.”

J whispered back something equally ridiculous, and before we knew it, we were doing an actual slow army crawl towards our front door. “What kind of assholes are we?” he asked me. “We’re not! They’re the assholes for fighting in the hallway. Now crawl faster!” I urged him, assholishly.

We settled in, silently taking seats on the floor adjacent to the front door. Another set of neighbors, apparently irked by the noise, flung their doors open and got All Up In It.

There was so much going on at once, it was hard to hear, but from what I understand, the topics covered in the fight included -- but were in no way limited to -- the following:

• pills (type unknown);
• an incriminating recording (Video? Audio? Unclear.);
• overuse of cell phone minutes;
• a Catholic priest;
• internet addiction;
• the actual Jersey shore (not to be confused with Snooki & Co.);
• a possible lover in San Clemente;
• a van; and
• the inappropriateness of “one half a couple sleeping with a cell phone in her pants.”

We WANTED to get up and ignore it, but really, I’d like to meet the person who can just WALK AWAY from eavesdropping on such an argument. Mystery Recordings! Cell phone etiquette! THE CLERGY. Come on.

It went on for quite some time, and around the half-hour mark, J was all, “this shit’s intense! I need a drink,” whereupon I instructed him to open his soda can in the kitchen. Basically, I am a strategic ninja/wizard.

As he gingerly settled down again, his knuckle cracked, and that was when I completely freaked out that they had heard, and knew they had become the evening’s entertainment. My insanity had a sobering, "WHAT HAVE WE BECOME"-type effect, and we both got up, chastened, and we went back to our respective books.

This is the probably the part where I should tell you how I learned something from this, and stopped eavesdropping, but YOU GUYS, I CANT.  These people keep shrieking in the hallway, literally AT OUR DOOR, and it ONLY GETS MORE AND MORE INSANE. Of course, I feel bad for them, and hope they work things out, (and of course, I suppose there may come a time where we will want to, you know, call the building management and/or authorities), but for now, I'd be lying if I said I wasn't finding this to be incredibly compelling.

I know. I KNOW.

If you need me, I'll be filling out the questionnaire for Intervention.

The First Rule Of Baby Fight Club Is...

YOU DON'T.

TALK.

ABOUT.

BABY FIGHT CLUB.

(...The second rule, apparently, is "Take off your skirt for Baby Fight Club." Oy.)

Toilet Bojangles, Stage Mothers, and Attack of the Fake E.T.: Just another week around here.

So, as I mentioned the other day, we're currently redoing our bathrooms, and there is presently an actual toilet that I have nicknamed Sir Terlet next to our bed. I don't want to complain about this too much because: Haiti, but you know, it's definitely making life a bit more challenging around here lately. The main bathroom -- the one currently undergoing renovation -- is obviously out of commission. (Here it is, partly done, and partly THE HELLMOUTH, OMG):

This means a few things, chief among them that -- so as not to impose on our nearby friends, all of whom have kids of their own they need to bathe -- we've been driving over to my parents every single night to shower and bathe the kids. Since it's winter, though, we decided we needed to blowdry the kids' hair before we took them home, lest they catch cold/ form icicles on their wee heads like cartoon people. T is pretty patient and gets why we need to do it, but Lo....well, my god. I know most of you haven't met my daughter, but on the best of days, she's like a coked-out, greased up squid, in terms of temperament and keeping in one's grip, respectively.

As you might imagine, therefore, blowdrying her hair is not the easiest of tasks. On the bright side, it has afforded me the opportunity to utterly perfect my Toddlers & Tiaras stage mother impression, wherein I earnestly tell the mirror-slash-imaginary-video-camera how much my 19-month-loves the pageant life, and implore said child to work harder on her booty dance, all while blowdrying her hair. It's really good, you guys. (The impression, I mean. Not her as-yet-nonexistent booty dance.Or my baby hair styling skills.)

Another side effect of the main bathroom being effectively closed is that T is using the tiny bathroom in our bedroom in the middle of the night. As such, we leave the hall light on for him so he doesn't trip over THIS MONSTROSITY in the dark.

I...I think it's a giant KitchenAid-like contractor thingy, but since I didn't want the kids touching it when the contractor isn't there, I threw an old sheet over it. Only now, it looks like fucking E.T. when Elliot takes him out on Halloween:

And dudes, I'm kind of scared of E.T. on the best of days, but imagine stumbling out of bed, disoriented, to help your kid get to the bathroom AND FORGETTING THAT THING IS THERE AND AUGHHHHHHH.

Happily, though, the work will be completed by early next week, and when it's done, we'll finally have a bathroom that doesn't appear as though it's on a U-boat, circa 1943. AND!! Slynnro's husband, the shockingly (to me!) artistically talented Mr. A, heard my mad ramblings about Sir Terlet, and actually DREW me an anthropomorphic toilet, who he named named Toilet Bojangles. It is amazing, and if Toilet Bojangles isn't a reason to smile, I don't know what is:

Have a great weekend, everyone!

A Contest, and Review of Kraft iFood Assistant 2.0

I'm reviewing a recipe app, and giving away a $50 American Express gift card, and $25 iTunes gift card over on my review blog!

What I've Been Up To: Basically, it revolves around Atlanta and a toilet sitting in my bedroom

Whoa, I, uh, hadn't realized I hadn't posted since before New Year's. Well, let me catch you up on the past few weeks, then!

1. My hair is now red(dish)! And not at all Annie-like! And I have no idea why I was so scared -- FOR YEARS -- to color my hair. I foresee this being the beginning of a lifelong undertaking.

2. My children had been sick, sick, sick. Snotfest: The Snottening IV-type shit. They were really sneaky about it, too; like, I'd be all dressed for work, and I'd wipe their wee noses, immediately give them hugs goodbye, and it wouldn't be until I'd be stepping into a meeting later that morning that I realized my shoulders looked as if Slimer from Ghostbusters has been gently nuzzling me. Professional! The worst part was Lo getting a double ear infection and Mystery Virus/Flu of Doom, which involved a temperature of 105.5 (One! Hundred! And! Five! Point! Five!) while we freaked out. Verily. Happily, she made a quick recovery, and the snotfest left our house. Huzzah!

3. I made a (superquick) trip to Atlanta to visit Ali and finally meet her fabled kids. I quickly won them over with my superior bubble letter skills and some candy; Nerds, specifically, should you, personally, be looking to bribe the Martell children for their love using sugary treats. Slynnro and Kristin also came to town a bit later, and we spent an all-too-brief day together, spotting uncanny Snooki lookalikes, hanging out, and generally being thrilled to see each other, even if it was for such a short time.

Oh, and also? Surviving the craaaaaazy blizzard that struck Atlanta. Did I say "blizzard"? My bad, I meant QUARTER-INCH OF SNOW. I just...well, from the freaked-out way Atlanta acted, you'd forgive me for assuming a blizzard had hit. The highlight, for me, was attempting to take a cab back to the hotel from Ali's place, only to find that the cab wouldn't, uh, start. I'm unclear as to why he turned the car off in the first place, but regardless, there I was, stuck in a stalled taxi at the bottom of a quiet street in suburban Atlanta with a cab driver cursing and weeping in Russian. ("Why this happen to me? In middle of fockink blizzard?!")

A stalled taxi, whose engine, might I add, the driver WAS NOT HELPING by repeatedly trying to turn over without giving it a rest, thus flooding the engine, thus filling the quiet street in suburban Atlanta with a sound akin to that of a cat being tortured. (And OH BELIEVE YOU ME, I am familiar with The Stalling Issue, having spent my formative driving years at the wheel of a dilapidated, battleship-sized blue station wagon that was almost as old as I was. Its name was Old Blue. Unoriginal, yes, but fitting.)

Miraculously, the engine finally started ("I will walk home! I live two miles away, and it is BEAUTIFUL NIGHT, peaceful like baby!" he had told me.), and off we went, into the snow, with both front windows opened. And really, I was just so grateful to be en route that I suffered in (shivery) silence as we fishtailed our way down the road.

4. I arrived home after the trip to discover a toilet in our bedroom.

And not some symbolic, metaphorically overwrought toilet, if that's what you were thinking:

Yes, that is cement next to it, and no, I am not outing myself or J as a hoarder. Rather, we are currently undergoing some renovations to our bathrooms, and HAHAHAHA as it turns out, in an apartment? With no real extra space? And two little kids running around? The only good/safe place for a toilet? Is in our bedroom. HAHAHHAAAAA OH I WEEP. The only way I'm dealing with this, naturally, is by calling it Sir Terlet. I figured if the thing has a fancy nickname (and possibly a top hat? And monocle?), it cannot drive me mad. Because, hey, there it is! A toilet! Next to the bed!

Oh, lord.