My second night in Zone 3- it's all about timing

Last spring Atlanta experienced one of it's wild wind storms, and a giant oak tree fell over the neighbor's yard, flattening their car like a pancake in the process.  Just as we were heading to bed on night two, we hear what sounds like chainsawing, coming from the neighbor's yard.  Obviously no one in their right mind would be operating a chainsaw at 11 pm on a Wednesday, right?  Wrong.  The neighbors were cutting up logs, with floodlights illuminating them. 

Matt warned me that everyone in the south gets up late and stays up late.  The tanning salon doesn't open until 11 am, and good luck getting anything done on a Sunday, when most stores just close up shop.  I didn't really believe him.  I figured I can stick to my usual schedule of getting up around 8 am, and getting out the door to accomplish any errands by 9 am.  I now concede the fact that there really is no point in getting up at eight, nine is better. And leaving the house around eleven assures that most stores will be open and I won't spend 20 minutes waiting in my car.  I figure it's a good thing I can now be at peace with sleeping in, especially when I'm up until 12:30 am listening to the soothing sounds of the neighbor's STIHL.

Ado

Welcome to Zone 3: Night 1

As most of you know, Ado arrived in Atlanta, Georgia on Tuesday of last week. It was a long time coming, and we were both looking forward to the event.  The airplane and airport-- usually sources of misery, unwanted groping, and alcohol-induced headaches-- unexpectedly lacked turbulence, for lack of a better word. 

But when we arrived back at the ranch, things got weird.  At approximately 11:30pm, the first barrage was fired in what was to be a bloody, ongoing skirmish between two large, angry urban ladies.  It started as mere angry shouting, which is regularly featured on Desoto Avenue right here in Zone 3, but the situation quickly devolved into the ladies angrily chest-bumping while their respective entourages made attempts to restrain the roughly 500 combined pounds of unbridled aggression. It was at this point, obviously, that I called Ado to the window to witness the display.

Unfortunately, she did not make it to the window in time to see Angry Lady 1 summarily yank a substantial portion of prosthetic hair (known locally as a "weave") out of the splayed locks of Angry Lady 2.  I did, however, point out the location of the tragically downed weave to her, and she remarked that it might bear a look-see in morning's light to determine whether it would make a good addition to her own 'do.  As her attorney, I, of course, advised against this.

Additional expletives, epithets and general slander were exchanged at full throat by the ladies while Ado and the Rooster looked on from a darkened window.  (Darkened, of course, so that the ladies would not see us a-gander and decide to turn their rage on us.)  The police soon arrived and, notwithstanding that they had firearms, tasers, and handcuffs on their belts, decided to add to the already-crowded chorus.  An episode of Jerry Springer [On Location] then took place until approximately 1:30am.

I figured that this was a fair introduction to Zone 3 for Ado, and I was, privately, quite satisfied at the night's events.  Thrown in the deep end, Ado had backstroked her way past the hoochies with commendable good humor.  See, in my our neighborhood, things like this happen approximately every fortnight, so I estimated that this would be Ado's most scintillating story for days, even weeks to come.  I was wrong:  like the days of Christmas, each subsequent night was to bring something more patently ridiculous.

ROOSTER