Friday, March 02, 2012

And then Gladys Kravitz got bitch slapped...verbally (contains profanity)

I was already running late this morning when my nosy downstairs neighbor, the Latina Gladys Kravitz, opened her door and said, "oh, Laurie, when you have a minute I need to talk to you."  I asked her what was up and she told me, "when you do laundry, go to the laundromat. You can't wash your clothes upstairs."  What the what?!?!  Um, I assure you all that I am most certainly NOT so ghetto as to wash my clothes in my bathtub.   I told Gladys this.  She told me that the water was running for an hour and a  half on Sunday and it leaked into her kitchen.  I, again, told her that it wasn't me and she should tell the Frau.  "Well, just don't do it anymore. You need to go to the laundromat," she said and started to go back inside her apartment.  I was tired because I haven't been sleeping well, and pissed because she totally didn't believe me.  In fact, she's been accusing me of washing my clothes in the bathtub since last July.  

"Bitch, do not go back inside your apartment when I'm talking to you. Get back out here."  Surprisingly, she actually came back out to talk to me.  I explained, very patiently because as I've mentioned before she's not an English speaker, that I am NOT washing my clothes upstairs, and that I did NOT run the water for an hour and a half on Sunday.  She countered with, "remember when you were on vacation and the man came to fix the leak. He said you did laundry up there and that's why it leaks."*  I tried to reason with her.  "Gladys, how would he know where and when I do my laundry?  I do NOT do laundry up there. Why are you going to believe him and not me?"  

"Well, the water was running all day and your pipes make noise and it leaked in my kitchen," said Gladys crossing her arms all defiant like.  So, I got all defiant, too.  "First of all, I wasn't even home on Saturday. I was working from 9:30 to 5:30.  And Sunday, I barely moved from the couch.  Hell, I didn't even take a shower (TMI) let alone wash clothes."  And then, she once again reiterated that I should not wash clothes in my bathtub, as if I'd been speaking Swahili this whole time and she was just nodding to be polite.  To which I replied with this heartfelt retort:

"Fuck you! How about next time you supposedly hear the water running for an hour and a half, you get off your ass, knock on my door, and I will fucking prove to you that it's not coming from my apartment so you and Frau and everyone else can get off my fucking back about the leak!"  Not surprisingly, she ran back inside at this point.  I can't wait to hear the message that Frau will surely be leaving on my machine.

*What the repairman saw was several shirts hanging in my bedroom.  I don't put my tops in the dryer. I bring them home and hang them to dry.  From this, he concluded that I must be washing my clothes in the bathtub, and no amount of protest will convince them otherwise. 

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