Guess who's coming to dinner? Vladimir Putin.

I woke up this morning to a muffled crash from above. If you've ever been to my apartment, then you are well aware that that crashes on my ceiling both muffled and un are regular occurrences.

These are the loudest people alive. I'm not one to complain about noise -- I have seen my share of very late night noise violations involving rivers of Keystone Light, lewd nursery rhymes chanted at high decibel level, cheers for quarters splashing into pitchers of beer, and cock fight style pinata beatings. (The poor horse never had a chance). But really, these people are the loudest people ever birthed on this planet. This, and my hearing has been severely incapacitated due to four years of spending the better half of my days encircled by 4 discs of crashing metal and 15 high frequency screeching expensive sticks. I can't imagine what these people sound like to a normal person.

Upon stealthy reconnaissance, I have found that the noisy neighbors are anti Huey Lewis and the News Russian twin sisters in their mid-60s and one of their missing-link-loser-God's-gift-to-democratic-society sons.

I know, right?

I don't know exactly how these women have the ability to make so much noise, but I have narrowed it down:

1. They're the nerve center of the notorious Davis based Russian mafia. This would explain the occasional beating as I'm trying to have a quiet Sunday afternoon on the couch with Regina George and the rest of her Plastics.

2. They're training for the 2012 Olympics as members of the Russian Jumping Jacks Team. This would explain the repeated jumping sounds above my kitchen, which I can't imagine are anything other than jumping jacks.

3. They're cloning Cosbys, which explains the stench of Borsch, and the handles of Popov in the recycling. (Cosby #83 is Russian Cuisine Cosby, while Cosby #45 is Alcoholic Cosby). (Duh).

4. They're hiding a very angry and restless Osama Bin Laden. I don't know...I can't understand what they're saying up there, it could be Russian, it could just as well be Talibanese.

5. They've got a UFC ring up there.

6. Their apartment is serving as a safe zone for war torn exiled Soviet commies suffering post traumatic stress disorder. The flashbacks explain the creaks in the mid morning, the screams of terror in midnight hour, and the sound of bodies hitting the wall at any given minute.

I have determined that the above are the only possibilities for the Shchi Sisters outrageous noise habits.

I would call the cops, but I don't think that the witness protection program has an MBA program in which all my six of my completed credits would transfer.

If they read my blog, which I'm absolutely sure they do, I may end up in bed with the head of some sort of prized farm animal tomorrow morning. Anybody want to try deep fried brain nuggets? Bring ranch dressing, I'm fresh out.

Elmo, you're a douchebag.

The holidays are over and school has started again. And this means I must get back to my regular blogging schedule. And by "regular blogging schedule" I mean whenever anything strikes enough anger in me to conjure up a rant.

I am fortunate enough to live right next door to a Target. It opened a few months ago, and it has literally changed my life. Bored? Let's go to Target! Need paper clips, toilet paper, or macaroni and cheese? Let's go to Target! Don't want to do laundry, but need a cute outfit for study group? Let's go to Target!

No, I am not exaggerating. Ask my roommates. I went twice, just today.

A week before Christmas, I was strolling down the fun-filled aisles of Target. I believe we were on a macaroni and cheese mission. (This mission can be read about in full on the imaginary blog "Weekdays with Sara and Ashley." This blog exists, but only in our minds. We reference it regularly. Again, I am not exaggerating.) What did I find on the end cap of a particular aisle?

Valentines' Day stuff.

Honestly, Target: ONE STRESSFUL HOLIDAY AT A TIME!!!

Christmas is already stressful enough: what if I paid more for my present than he/she did for his/hers? Then there's the inevitable awkward moment...Oh wow, you got me multi colored post-it notes! Those cost about the same as a bottle of Dom Perignon, right?

In case you're wondering: In the previous sentence, I WAS exaggerating. Dom Perignon and post-it notes are not comparable in price.

Thanks, Target, for complementing the Christmas stress with the stress of Valentines' Day two months early. If it weren't for my Diet Coke addiction and your low prices on my weekly 24 pack fix, I'd never enter your doors.

For any of you male readers, no, I do not currently have a date for Valentines Day. Applications are currently being accepted through February 1st. Please attach a credit report, references, recent bank statement, proof of voter registration, college transcripts, and a picture.

What? I might as well eliminate the ones that aren't going to survive early on. Save them the trouble, and save me the "It's not you, it's me" speech.

So, Christmas. What an event. It took my family 2 full SUVs to transport 4 people and 2 dogs to Tahoe for 6 days. More than half the cargo space was occupied by a very discreetely hidden Beatles RockBand, a Labrador with high puke potential, and a tiny Schipperke that enjoys pooping in her crate. The other half was occupied by wine. And yet, we still ran out. I'll leave it up to you to decide whether or not I am exaggerating this time.

Plagued with cabin fever on a snowy Sunday, we decided to make the trek to South Lake Tahoe. Naively, I thought this might mean that there was some excitement in store for the day.

I was wrong.

Our destination? Taco Bell.

Yes. A bean burrito with green sauce and 7 mild sauce packets was the highlight of the excursion.

It was that day that I discovered something about aging: you know people are getting old when they like to drive around and see what has changed.

Thank God for my iPhone, because without it, I would have actually paid attention to my parents' exclaims of:

"WOW! That wasn't there last time!"

"Holy Mackerel, when I was here last, that detachable ski lift was just a man with a snowshoes and a rope!"

and

"I remember when that building was the only liquor store in town!"

Technology saved me from the sad realization that one day, I too, will look at new buildings and cry out in surprise at how they have changed. Until then, I will immerse myself into whatever useless app I can find.

And while I'm on the subject of technology:

How in the world did people date before Facebook? These days, Facebook is essential to the dating process. A relationship is not official until it has been posted on Facebook. I'm serious. Not to mention, the whole process of courtship has changed completely with the introduction of social media networks. No longer will a gentleman admirer call on his ladyfriend and actually grow a set and ask her to go down to the drive in for a chocolate malt. No. These days, courtship has come down to the following: Facebook frienship, Facebook wall posts, Facebook links to something both parties see as humorous, and Facebook comments on photos and status updates. Level of Facebook communication is directly related to mutual attraction.

Sad as it is, I have come to accept it as fact.

But what if one party doesn't have Facebook?

Does that mean.... *gasp* that one party actually has to CALL the other? Unheard of. A phone call these days means too much. If you call someone, then you might as well be proposing marriage.

It's a scary world out there. I am not sure how to grasp this issue. How does one proceed? I would ask an older person for advice on traditional forms of courtship, like my mother, for example. But she's too busy gawking at new buildings.

And finally, as the third and final part of today's rant, I wish to recognize all the underappreciated Muppets. I apologize, Elmo, you're cute and red, but it's time that you step out of the Muppet spotlight. You're a douche. And your theme song is stupid.

Modern day Elmo is probably a strung-out porn addict that is spending his 40s passed out on his Mom's plastic-covered couch, living solely on Sesame Street syndication revenue.

Let's take a moment to remember the great Placido Flamingo, truly one of the most underappreciated Muppets of all time. What's more badass than an opera singing flamingo with a passion for early childhood education? Placido sparked the passion for opera for many young children in the 80s. Sadly, I have not seen an appearance by Placido in quite some time. He has probably moved on to bigger and better things.

Modern day Placido is probably working for the Red Cross, teaching undernourished third world youth how to cure aids, ebola, the black plague, syphillis, PMS, acne, and swine flu through music. Placido's performance in "The Bathtub of Seville" moved me to tears. "Elmo's world" has only moved me to extreme anger at the dumbing down of Muppet intelligence just to sell a quick few ticklish dolls. Way to capitalize at the behest of your once stellar reputation, Sesame Street.

And with that, I bid you adieu.

This rant was brought to you by the letter Q, and the number 9*.

*Which, according to Caitlin, is a male and very angry number.