Coming To The Party?

            Living downstairs in a duplex has very few perks.   As a matter of fact, the only bonus I can think of is that you are the first one to know if there is a flood.  However, I started to notice that  living downstairs seemed to get me invited to quite a few parties upstairs.  I thought it was my charming charisma and personality at first or maybe because I drink fancy beer and usually bring a 12 pack but, either way, I was definitely and often getting invited to the Upstairs Parties.

            Upon arriving to one of these shindigs, I wasn’t surprised that I didn’t know anybody.  It was my neighbour’s friends but I did notice that my hostess (who will hereafter be referred to as Neighbouress) didn’t introduce me to anyone and I always felt a little weird introducing myself as the guy who lives in the basement.  After about 4 or 5 beers I’d get tired and remember that I still had to work in the morning and I’d walk around looking for Neighbouress to thank her for the invite, but she was often never to be found.

            Trying to get out in the morning was a pain in the ass because I’d be blocked in and have to wake people up to get out of the drive.  The worst part was that there was no Timmie’s that morning because I’d get fired if I’d show up late for work. 

            Next Friday would be more of the same.  When I got home from work my parking spot was already taken by somebody.

            “Hey, there’s a small get-together tonight; you should come,” Neighbouress would say and then run back upstairs without giving me a chance to answer.

            Maybe three or four beers and I’d be tired of Buckcherry and Lil' Wayne and I’d head back downstairs.  My old radio could never drown out their music, so I would put in some construction earplugs and try to get some sleep.  Seeing as my spot had been taken the night before I had no trouble getting out but I was a little grumpy getting a $15 ticket for street parking after 10pm. Later arriving home I’d laugh when there was still a car or two in the driveway, people who hadn’t sobered up enough to make it home yet.

            This would go on 3 times a month or so and it would be the same story: you're invited, never noticed, can’t sleep, parking ticket, and late for work.

            Finally I had to put an end to this insanity. I called McLandlord to ask for help.  After explaining the situation he told me that “e'rey body 'as the right to enjoy thare own time in peace and quiet” and that he would “'av a wee word with de lass”.

            It wouldn’t have been an hour before McLandlord called back and — with that fiery temper that only the Irish get worked up to — let me know that “The nex' time det ye' feel like complain’n don’t facken whine tuh me wit chore arrogant self-rightchosness, and if ye' don’t like the party, dan don’t facken go to 'em!”

             Well, at least I know why I kept getting invited to the parties.  It seemed as though if you go to a party you waive the right to complain about the noise.  I figure Neighbouress knew exactly how to get what she wanted and she sure knew handle guys like me.  For the rest of her tenancy, I never got invited back to a party (six of them) and I never dared complain about it again.