Aaaaaaand, We're Back!

Hello fools and loyal readers. There has been much upheaval at the Blogtari camp in the last few months and we decided to take an unannounced sabbatical. We're sorry. Here's what you've missed:

• We're with child


• We moved from NYC to Los Angeles (county)


• We had some long, drawn out goodbyes on the East Coast to both friends and restaurants


• We packed our faces off and played a buttload of Street Fighter 4 (ok, that was CinS)

That's about it.

Now that we're all BFFs again, I have a confession. And as my BFF, you are dying to hear it.

A big part of the reason I wasn't posting much in 09 is because I had nothing nice to say. And someone once told me that in this instance, it is better to say nothing at all.

I'm a pretty decisive person and once a decision is made, like Veruca Salt, I want it NOW! So when I decided to leave New York for the temperate shores of Los Angeles, I was ready to go. Immediately. And when you're in that mindset, nothing about your current situation will do. And so, I had nothing nice to say about my life in NY.

My apartment was too small; my neighborhood, to industrial. My commute to work was too stinky. My office; too bleak. My friends, no longer in walking distance. Plus, I was pregnant and nauseated and sober. Dark days.

I realized that no one wants to hear me complain twice a week for several consecutive months, so I took myself out of the blogosphere (which did nothing to quell my use of lame jargon like blogosphere). But now that I've landed in LA (and have some new material), I am reinstating Blogtari and all its glory! (I hear you. I hear you smiling. And thank you, I am too)

So to kick things off, I have to flash back two weeks to our final days in New York. You may recall the deep-seeded hatred for our D-Bag neighbor, his little woman, and their dog. Well, things got worse in my darkened state.

The neighbors decided that it would be an awesome idea to shove yet ANOTHER small, yappy dog into their 775 sq ft apartment. The hallway dog park was in full-effect a solid 12 hours a day. The neighbors even transformed the dog park into a college dorm, by inviting friends to come hang out in the hall and drink wine while tossing squeaky toys against my door. As I've said, these people are awesome.

One hormonal day, I had had enough. It was the beginning of bark-sesh 400 of the day and I lost it. Standing in the kitchen (which is right by the hallway door) I screamed at full-volume, "F***ING KILL YOUR DOG!"

CinS was mortified. I was right. It's just as much their business what I scream in my own apartment as what they do in the hallway outside my apartment. KABOOM! You've been Henstridged.

Needless to say, the neighbor tension worsened in our final weeks in our apartment.
The day before the move, CinS and his bottle opener keychain, were out on the town. I was finishing up some last minute packing and was craving a beer. A non-alcoholic beer.

I was desperate for a faux buzz. I opened the door and peered down the hall. Of course, the neighbor's door was wide open and they were blocking the entire hallway with some kind of porter's cart. It didn't seem too realistic for me to knock on everyone else's door asking for a bottle opener, when the neighbors were right there. So I took the plunge.

Luckily the sideburned-D-bag was severely injured and moaning on the couch about a hernia, so I did my business with his little woman. Perfectly pleasant. The dogs didn’t bark once.

Peace with the neighbors set off a whole string of loveliness on our way out of NY. The pizza place told us to fughetabout the $.012 we owed for our lunch. A stranger carried our bags down a busted escalator. The sun was out.

It was a good day for New York and the Blogtaris. But, I’m sorry to say dear NY friends, the best part was that we were leaving all the good and the bad behind.

Stay tuned for all new complaints about our new life in Los Angeles!

The Other Side

You may recall that we hate our neighbors, and may even recall that in addition to the Iraq-visiting, mutton-chopped jerk next door, we also live next door to some folks who have loud sex. But what you don't know is the whole story.

While we have had frequent run-ins with the mutton-ass, his lady friend, and their poorly behaved dog, we have never seen the loud sexers. Never.

We think they may be vampires. Seriously. And not Edward Cullen, able to leave the house and function in the sun vampires, but Bill Compton, stuck under the floorboards vampires.

These folks are completely nocturnal. I know this because I hear them. CinS is quick to say that the reason we hear them is because their bed is against our shared wall and causes a ruckus, but my hearing may be better than his because I always hear her screaming. Always.

They are "active" at 9:00 when I'm putting on my robe to settle in for nice night of DVR. Then again at 12:30 when we're trying to sleep. Again at 5:00 when I'm waking up to pee. And then some more at 9:30 when I should already be at work (I was home sick one day).

It's a little nuts.

It would be kind of rad if the girl were single and dragging strangers home for loud sex all the time, but we're pretty sure that these vampire people are in a committed relationship. (Yes, CinS did put a cup up to the wall and heard the dude say I Love You) Which I suppose is admirable, but also a little gross.

It's like imagining your parents having sex. Or even your married friends.

Anyhow, the worst part about the sex vampires is that they make us feel guilty for not having constant sex at all hours. I would rather go back to bed after I pee at 5 am, but I guess that's why I still get carded at 30 while they feed off the blood of virgins.

Won't You Be Mine?

My husband and I are not friendly. We don't make friends on vacation. We don't talk to our row-mates on a flight. And we never, ever, talk to our neighbors.

We have been living in our apartment for 3 years now and do not know a soul on our floor. Sure, there's "Z," the flaming (both in demeanor and in hair color) 30-something who blasts En Vogue and other 80's R&B at all hours. And our loud sex next-door neighbors to the left. But since we've never spoken to any of these people, I would hardly call that "knowing" our neighbors.

Ironically, the only neighbors we have spoken to are the people on the other side of our living room wall (not the loud sexers. clearly, we share a bedroom wall), and these discussions are always nasty and involve noise complaints.

It all started when we got our new TV and surround sound system. We were enjoying our electronics on a mere 25 volume when we got a knock on the door. “Please turn it down,” the neighbor said. And we obliged.

Since we hadn’t met our neighbor, we had no idea at the time that the person who came to tell us to turn it down did not actually live next door. He was just visiting.

-5 points to our neighbors for pawning off the uncomfortable task of asking us to turn down the volume.

The next incident was right after we got Rock Band. We were rocking out on a Friday night and got a call from the doorman asking us to turn it down. It was only 11:00. On a Friday. But still, we turned down the volume on the game, but continued to sing our hearts out. I was way too drunk to remember this correctly (as I see Rock Band as an all-immersive experience involving both rock and partying like a rock star), but I'm pretty sure the doorman called a second time with another noise complaint.

-10 points to our neighbors for having the doorman do their dirty work. Twice.
-25 points for being lame on a Friday night.

Have I mentioned that our neighbors have a dog? No? Well, that could be because I assumed that you and everyone within a 50 mile radius have heard their dog yap its head off on a daily basis. They also use the hallway outside our apartment as their personal dog park, so the dog can chow down on a squeaky toy at maximum volume directly in front of our door.

-15 points for raising a dog with no manners.

The guy next door also smokes cigars. In his apartment. With the door open. So the hallway and inevitably, my kitchen, reeks of cigar smoke.

-5 points for your self-important nicotine habit.

The guy next door also is a major D-bag with non-ironic mutton-chop sideburns and a spare tire. He is some kind of photo journalist who is constantly name-dropping in the elevator to our other neighbors who have been trapped into conversation with him. I really, really want to smack this guy.

This morning, he and I left our apartments at the same time and shared the elevator. After we exchanged hollow good mornings, the D-bag actually said, "I think your husband hates me." Obviously.

"Oh, really?" I feigned innocence.
"Yeah. I think it's about that dumb karaoke game. I bet you hate it as much as I do."
"No way. I love it." And anything else that you hate.
"Really!"
"Yeah, it's one of the only games we play together."
"I bet he's always playing, like, Ghost Recon or something. Well, he should go to Iraq like I did and then he won't want to play those games anymore."
I am not kidding. He actually name-dropped Iraq. -50 points.

So the residents of 14B are down 110 points for the year. And it's only August. I guarantee they make it a cool 200 by the New Year.