Dear God

Dear God,

I love my parents. I seriously do. Without hesitation I can tell you that I would do anything for them.

But seriously. This apartment is not big enough for the three of us.

Tonight I got pulled over by a cop because I didn't have my vehicle emissions test stickers on the front of my windshield. Not because I was speeding. Not because I ran a yellow light. Not because I sped up and ran over an innocent-but-gelled-up-Guido-child. But because I didn't have updated vehicle emissions test stickers on my front windshield.

A random, young cop that did not have a Jersey accent politely pulled me over because he found me, a needle in the proverbial metropolitan haystack, without a sticker that showed that my two-year-old-car does not pollute as much as a 13-year-old Buick LeSabre does.

And then he politely ticketed me because I had my GPS in the center of my windshield instead of the "lower-center of the windshield or lower dashboard area" of my windshield.

And that rage that slowly turned and fired inside of me was only amplified inside of me because my father was in the passenger seat. And this rage was triply amplified because I had just explained to my parents that I needed to get a new vehicle emissions test sticker for my car, but I could not get one because I didn't have a NJ driver's license, and I didn't have a NJ driver's license because I don't have proof of residence in NJ, and I don't have proof of residence in NJ because my landlords still haven't sent me an updated lease, and...............RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGE!!!!! <forgetaboutDuncanandhisinabilitytogetanewjobIjustgotaticketbecauseofsomeoneelse'sinabilitytobeadecentGodfearinghumanbeingcompletelydeficientofcompassionandcommonsenserrrRRRRAAAAAARRRRRGGGGGGHHHHH!>

At this point my hands started to shake (to be honest, this happens every time I get pulled over), and I wanted to open my door and step out of my car and walk towards the police car JUST to see what would happen if the cop freaked out and decided to taze me. I was ready to be that redneck on COPS that just wanted to talk but ended up getting pepper-sprayed, tazed, and handcuffed...shirtless, of course.

[See, this is what happens when my friends talk about this stuff. It slowly gets absorbed into my conscience. Osmosis. I absorb what I accept as decent actions of my friends. You all talk about tazing civilians, and suddenly I wonder what would happen if I, of clear and decent mind, decide to play Devil's Advocate and run and just antagonize the boys in blue.] Again, all of my emotions were amplified because my dad was in the car with me. If there is anyone who I want to impress with my sweet driving skills (and delicious bass-catching skills) its my dad. For whatever 1950's coming-of-age, impress-my-dad reason, its my dad.

So, $200+ later....

Actually....let me back up.

My dad and I went to Target tonight because my mom decided to reorganize my apartment. My dad and I left for approximately 20 minutes to fill his tank up with gas and then figure out how to sync his new iPod up to the Kia Soul. This took all of APPROXIMATELY TWENTY MINUTES. When we got back, my mom was midway through a redecoration of my apartment. What I found out after this 20 minutes was that my bar needed to be in my dining room, my pictures all needed to be re-hung in a different arrangement, my couch *obviously* needed to be tilted at an angle, and my chair/throne needed to be in a different corner of my living room. My book case needed to be re-arranged closer to my TV, and my TV needed to be in the center of the wall it was on, and so it goes.

AND I needed another book case, a plant stand, and a floor lamp.

To be fair, my mother has a knack for rearranging rooms and making them better. "Unlocking their potential." And I have given her permission to rearrange whatever she wanted to. I just didn't anticipate her trying to accomplish all of this while I was out of the home.

So my dad and I were on a mission after dinner to go to Target to buy the new furniture.

I would not have been on the road tonight, sans an updated vehicle emissions test, -WITH- a GPS in the middle of my windshield, if I didn't need a bookcase, plant stand, and floor lamp.

So I got home, sufficiently miffed at having TWO tickets for no other apparent reason than passing an eagle-eyed cop with nothing better to do than collect tickets from innocent bookcase buyers. I started to put together a floor lamp and a plant stand while my dad put together a bookcase. In case you were wondering, plant stands from Target are pieces of sh!t, and they fall apart at a moment's notice.

Moment: Hey, what are you doing?

Notice: Nothing much, how about you?

Moment: Watching "Dancing with the Stars." Did you know that Pussycat Doll Nichole is from Louisville?
Notice: I did! Did you see how she's so serious-looking all the time? Its like, "You're the lone Pussycat Doll in a rotating cast of Pussycat Dolls which consist of dancing, quasi-talented singer/smilers. Lighten up."

Moment: I know, right?

Notice: DROP ME

Moment:

I feel really gay for having just typed that.

My dad was hard at work putting together a new bookcase when suddenly there was a knock at the door.

Dad: Paul, you have company.

Me: No I don't

Nobody, for the two months that I've lived here, has ever knocked on my door.

Tonight proved to be the exception.

Dad: Paul, someone is knocking on your back door.

Paul: Well, hell, answer it.

At this point, my downstairs neighbor is at my back door for the first time in two months. I have talked with him many times, chatting about sports or the weather or cigars or the city, and at LEAST 50% of the time I check with him to make sure I'm not making too much noise upstairs. And ALWAYS he insures that he, nor his wife, nor his 10-month-old son Dave can hear me at all.

His name is John. His wife's name is Danielle. His son's name is Dave.

I hear Dave every once in a while crying about things babies cry about. I have only heard Danielle one time. I hear John often because he has the kind of booming voice that could be singled-out in the crowded NYSE.

On the eve of the first night I stayed here alone, I heard Danielle for the first and only time. John and Danielle had gotten into the kind of shouting, door-slamming fight that led to the police responding to the kind of domestic disturbance that required me to put on pants and come make a statement at the front door. I heard Danielle screaming things like "&^$& YOU!," and "HELP ME!," and "WHAT THE &%@#?!" through the floor. I heard John even clearer responding to these questions and statements. Later that night I witnessed Danielle get escorted away in police cars. Later that week I watched her move back in. Later than that, even, I heard John responding with the kind of adult statements, through the floor, in the booming kind of voice that only comes from a man when he's receiving oral sex.

Since then, John and Danielle have been a model couple.

And we chat about everything. They are truly my favorite neighbors. We talk and laugh about lots of subjects.

I've never had the nerve to ask what happened on the night of March 9th (the night of the screams and fight and police), but I admit that I considered moving back to KY that night, paralyzed from fear, because I thought everyone in NJ was either a wifebeater or an abused wife. And I want nothing to do with either.

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So anyways, John (the supposed wifebeater) was at my backdoor (no jokes) asking if everything was alright. He was talking to my father because I was in the midst of putting together some God-forbidden cheap-Chinese-manufactured plant stand from Target. My father insured John that all was good. I popped my head into the back door to show John that I was indeed alive and well and not suffering any torture sessions from the hands of any Mafia.

I assume that John thought some violent torture was being conducted by the Mafia upstairs from his apartment.

I make these assumptions, because any time there's something I come across that is inexplicable, I blame it on the Mafia.

For as long as I've lived here, with the exception of when Pat, Dave, and I moved myself in here, this apartment has been really quiet. It's always been just me up here. Working and cooking and cleaning and gaming and lounging up here. Occasionally writing self-flagellatory blogs about my experiences, but overall being a quiet neighbor.

Neither John nor Danielle were used to hearing three sets of feet operating up here, and I'm sure they weren't used to hearing someone re-arrange furniture up here, nor were they used to the banging and clanging and hammering that are associated with putting together new furniture.

So John made his way upstairs for the first time since I moved here to check "to make sure everything was ok." I don't know if he assumed I was midway through a fight, through a violent gang bang, torture session, or what. Nor was I sure how he was prepared to intervene.

To me, the sound of putting together a plant stand and a bookcase are completely remarkable and distinguishable. Apparently, to my downstairs neighbor, they were worth checking out.

John got his satisfactory answer, and he left back to his downstairs apartment, assured after meeting my father, that we were ok.

My parents at this point, took on the position of scolded children.

And for whatever reason, this completely exhausted me. I'm writing now, half-awake and half-asleep, but 100% agitated. I'm just bothered. I don't love anyone any less. I'm not any different. Just tired and temporarily agitated.

I was $60 in the hole already for buying cheap furniture from Target that I didn't really need, and now I'm at least $200 in the hole from the Bergen County Police Department. I have irritated my neighbors, and I have made my parents feel guilty for trying to make this apartment a better place.

I fell asleep almost a dozen times typing this.

I don't know that I love anyone as much as my family. They operate on a plane that exists separate from the rest of the world. I will tell anyone that I love my friends and will sacrifice anything for them, but my family is on another level.

That being said, "I need my space." I need to be able to walk around in my boxers again. I need to be able to load my refrigerator the way I want it. I need to be the only person with access to my bourbon and beer. I need to be able to make my own schedule and not drive when policemen are looking for vehicle-emissions-test stickers or GPS's. And I need to be able to not watch golf tournaments or Dancing With the Stars or the Amazing Race on my tv.

Ultimately, I would never trade the time I have with my parents.

Except now.

Please, God, help them get to North Carolina safely. And then please let them drive back to Kentucky safely.

And most importantly God, please let me decompress and deflate back into the space that used to be my apartment.

I miss my parents already, but please, travel safely, fast.