So I was laying in bed dreaming about George Clooney and Anthony Bourdain arguing about who’d become the better Republican, having both changed their political leanings in order to win my attention.

George and I see eye-to-eye on Darfur, and what with that in common and his passionate lust for me, he was willing to stop being such a man-ho if I’d return his passionate interest. But Anthony Bourdain can cook. And write. And hold his liquor.

Decisions, decisions.

Just as my dream-self realized that, hey, I’m a married woman so what am I doing encouraging these two celebrities’ affections, I heard The Voice: “Get your ass out of bed NOW! I’m leaving!”

No, it was not VH. It was my neighbor, she of the Six A.M. Stilettos and the voice as big as her hair.

It’s not every day that I get two celebrities fighting over me, dream or no dream. I woke up pissed. How dare she keep me from finding out how I’d reconcile my marital status and the affections of these men?!

If you have not yet figured it out, when I wake up pissed I wake up truly Venomous. But neither my impulse control nor my self-censorship wake up as quickly as my temper. So I, dressed in my PJs and with my feet hurriedly shoved into my fuzzy leopard print slippers, threw open the front door and raced onto the steps.

“You heard your mother,” I screamed. “We ALL heard your mother, dammit, just as we do every single morning. Now GET IN THE CAR and get the HELL out of here so I can go back to bed!”

My neighbor’s carefully painted scarlet lips opened in a big round O as did her heavily mascaraed eyes. “Oh, did I wake you?” she asked sweetly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Lady, you have been waking me each and every morning for nearly three years now, and when it’s not you it’s your kids. We weren’t the ones who put the notice on your door reminding you of the noise restrictions, but I’d love to buy that person a drink. Now SHUT UP!”

Yes, my friends, it’s going to be a great day in the Venomous Household.