I can't wait for our Super Bowl party. I hope we have a lot of people. I hope they're loud. I hope the neighbors complain so that we can be like, "Well what about the time you were blasting house music at 4 a.m. after the midnight shouting fest with your mother? Or the time you, from downstairs, fell off the bed at 6 a.m. having wild sex and woke us from a deep sleep when you hit your head and we could hear you and your boyfriend laugh about it -- though you were crying a little. And your damn kid. She's old enough to walk, and a kid like that shouldn't be crying every two hours. Tell her to shut her yap at 3 a.m. or I'm going to start tap dancing on the floor above her room, which, by the way, is adjacent to your room, and I can't believe you'd be having raucous, fly-off-the-bed sex with her right there. You slut. You'll probably get pregnant again, because you sure haven't learned from the first two times."

And then we'll close the door on them and go back to being loud.