Ryan's Unlawful 23rd & the Sock Police

Last Thursday was my roommate Ryan's big 2-3. She can now officially be said to be in her "mid-twenties" (which I plan on doing all the time, as I still qualify for the youthful sounding "early twenties." At least for the next month. Success!)

To celebrate the joyous occasion of her birth, we had a dinner party Friday night. We started a dance party at previously non-dancing bar. We threw a blow out Saturday night at our apartment, complete with a ton of friends, bottles of classy (ish) beer, and a even a guest appearance from Boston's finest. And no, they were not just strippers in costume. (Though for a brief moment when I opened the door to the three policeman that idea did cross my mind.)

Around 1:30am, still practically early evening in some parts of the world, three police officers knocked on our door because of a "noise complaint". Firstly- it wasn't noise. It was just really involved dancing set to some compelling pop dance hits. And secondly- what kind of person doesn't like Rihanna's Disturbia?

Life in the puritanical and newly Scott Brown'd commonwealth of Massachusetts does appear to have a few downsides (in addition to the Rihanna-hating). Why is last call at 1:30 am? Why does the subway shut down before last call, at the early hour of 12:30am? (A real aside- taking away a public transportation options seems to be a poor way to discourage drunk driving). And lastly, must all fun be concluded before 1am? Is all fun that occurs after that time strictly prohibited? The city of Boston (or at least the police) cause me to ponder.

While Ryan's bass-heavy speakers are most likely to blame for the police visit, Eric's fly dance moves, Mijon shaking it like a salt shaker, and Denise madly twirling probably didn't help any. Or my doing of the worm (amidst riotious cheering, might I add. Really, how could one pass up an opportunity so fine?)

But at the end of the day we must ask ourselves, what better way is there to celebrate a friend's birth than to have the event honored and attended by Boston's finest?

While dancing at the party I also was forced to say goodbye to another pair of socks. The hardwood flooring in my apartment- the same flooring that sounded so nice on paper- has successfully devastated my entire sock collection. Rogue nails haphazardly hammered in (it would seem) catch my feet and cause me to trip around the room more than I already do. There's nothing like making a klutzy girl more entertaining than giving her a vindictive floor.

Many a weekend morning has been spent with me, hammer in my hand, obsessively scouring out the rogue un-embedded nails and then pounding them into submission. While my roommate laughs. Though equipped with a pair of sturdy-bottomed slippers (a conscientious gift from my sister who is familiar with my sock woes) I sometimes get lazy and indignant. Why should I be forced to wear shoes in my own apartment? I will do as I damn well please, woodfloor. I am bigger and stronger than you. You can take my socks, but you can't take my free will!

My roommate doesn't seem to have this problem. She's lost lost two, maybe three socks in total. I've lost 20. (Or more.) She thinks I am crazy. I think the floor has some vendetta against me. It's a hard argument to win, though. It's not a bad enough problem to validly complain about, but it is just bad enough to irk me. Five times a day. I loved my socks.

Now I am down to about six pairs of socks. Those that remain are riddled with an complete set of tiny, nail-ravaged holes. Yes, there are worse things in life, but I have felt a lot of emotions in terms of the sockwear I've lost. This normally wouldn't be included in polite conversation, except for the fact that my nephews are obsessed with my holey socks. Obsessed. They are the sock police of Boston.

Every time I come into their house they ask to see the holes. They ask to touch the holes. Throughout the day as we are playing with cars, trucks, markers, and stickers they like to bring up the holes in my socks to talk about them. Why do you have holes? Are there any others? Can I touch them again? My toes are prodded and tickled daily by two extremely interested toddlers. But at least they find me amusing. Auntie Emma and the hole-y socks: it would make an excellent kids book. Or an indie rock band.