The only thing more pathetic than realizing the highlight of your social calendar is taking your aunt up to Canada for bingo... is having her cancel because SHE has something better to do.
I love my Aunt completely, but she doesn't drive and doesn't like to go anyplace she can't smoke... and has a fuller social calendar than I.
Work and the stories I'm working on provide interaction and ideas, but back at the apartment everything grinds to a halt.
The largest "at home" moment of the last several days was the answer to the question of how much people can hear from my apartment.
Assaulted from both sides by loud televsion and guitar music respectively (to say nothing of the arguments from downstairs, a natural by-product of two people attempting to cohabit space intended for a gerbil), I try to be a considerate neighbor. I'm constantly readjusting my television to a volume just below what I can hear and wondering why I can't follow the story. Catholic guilt is like that.
It somehow seemed the right thing to do my part to not contribute to the combined life noises streaming through the walls and heating register. I thought I kept things so low, no one could possibly hear me.
Until I was getting dressed this morning.
All was calm, all was bright. I was apparently the only one yet awake in the wing. I heard steps in the hallway, a common phenomena with heavy boots and winter wear. And then the sound of the trudger passing gas in the hall.
Within seconds it was clear the doors were porous to more than sound.
So apparently they can hear my television.
And I need to play it a little louder... and put a towel under the door.
Copyright 2004 Judi Griggs