“you know why!”

Living in New York City, you get used to fire trucks screaming down the street.  You even become immune to fire trucks pulling up in front of your building.

That’s what happened last night.  Sirens, flashing lights, loads of firemen.  All out in the street in front of my apartment building.  As my apartment faces the street, I am privy to all that goes down on my street (fires, car accidents, arguments, movie shoots, etc).  Most of the time when the fire trucks come, it’s a false alarm.  There might have been a smoke detector going off because someone burned something on the stove.  Or there is a smell of gas (happened in my building more than once) that is annoying and a bit worrisome, but not threatening.  In the 7 years that I’ve lived in my apartment, there has been 1 actual fire on my block.  It was a bad one in the building two buildings down from mine, but no one was hurt, thank goodness.

So, last night – the lights, the sirens, the firemen…I’m looking out the window and wondering if maybe it’s my building they are checking out.  I wonder if I need to throw on real clothes, grab my purse and execute “project kitty”.  (Project Kitty is my emergency plan of throwing the cat in a pillowcase for easy transport in the event we need to evacuate the premises immediately, because her cat carrier is stashed away and it would take too long to get out and I will NOT leave said kitty behind)

I go to my apartment door to peek out into the hallway and check for smoke or a gas smell.  Nothing.

What I do see, however, is the guy who lives next to me, whose door is directly across from mine, coming home from work.  This is a guy who SLAMS his door every time he comes in or out.  It could be 3PM or it could be 3AM.  SLAM!

So, neighbor guy is coming home from work.  He’s dressed in a suit and walking quite fast towards his door (which means he’s also walking towards me standing in my door).  He gives me this look like “what the fuck are you looking at?”  Excuse me?  Am I not allowed to open my door and look out?

Then, he gives me that once over look where he’s taking notice of what I’m wearing.  And this look of disgust crossed over his face.  Really?  You’re going to judge me for what I wear in the privacy of my own home?  Ass munch.  I’ll tell you what I was wearing – boxer shorts and a t-shirt.  Oh, the horror!  Shoot me down because I was wearing comfy clothes in my home!

I shut my door.  He slams his, of course.  And I’m so taken aback by how he unfriendly he was.  How judgmental he was.  And just how completely douchey he was.

There’s a thing in the movie What Happens in Vegas with Kutcher and Diaz, where Diaz’s best friend crotch punches guys.  And then as the guy is doubled over in pain asking “whhhyyyyy?”, she points at him and says “you KNOW why!”  The end scene where she does that cracks me up every time.

I think I’m gonna have to knock on Douchey Neighbor’s door and crotch punch him.

8 Comments

  1. firecracker3

    The suspense of the fire activity is killing me, what happened!?!?!

    • Haha! Nothing, it was a false alarm, I guess. Firemen went into the building across the street from me, then left 20 mins later.

  2. lol I would crotch punch him. Just knock on his door and be like this is for the other night!

    • Yes, he definitely deserves it. And if I don’t do it, I have a few friends who would be more than willing to help me out…

  3. Grey Goose, Dirty

    haha Amy, I love that scene! Your neighbor sounds very deserving of one!

    ah yeah, it’s all well and fine that project kitty didn’t have to take place, but dammit woman, where are your priorities? were any of the firemen cute? ;-)

    • Oh, Grey, I didn’t notice if any of the firemen were cute :( It actually never even crossed my mind to check. I am a sad case, indeed.

      • Grey Goose, Dirty

        you are not. you’re just out of practice. not everyone is a natural perv like i am ;-)

  4. prettylittlereckless

    Doooooo it. Maybe that’s what he needs. A good punch to the crotch so he can act normal and less douchey.

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