Last week my zone was violated in a deplorable incident involving my next door neighbor, E6 (a.k.a. “The Mouth”) and her family.
I wage perpetual, if silent, protests against several of E6’s behaviors. Allowing her door to slam behind her at all hours, the “Boom!” a concussive blast that shakes the building to its core. Constantly screaming “FUCK!” — especially in the presence of her autistic child. But most of all, I resent the fierceness with which she guards her huge handicapped parking space.
As previously noted, despite having a car-length, unoccupied space behind her, E6 parks at the tippy-top of hers. This leaves no room for anyone to squeeze into a tight spot in front of her, lest she call the police complaining someone’s parked half an inch over her line.
This bugs me.
So. Last week I was entering my building through the back door. Hearing people walk through the front entrance, I called, “Should I hold the elevator for you?”
Again: “Should I hold the elevator?”
Slightly irritated, I pulled the gate and got on.
Just as I went to push the button, E6, her husband, and two children rounded the corner, dragging huge bags of laundry behind them.
They’d ignored my question, but felt no compunction about piling into the elevator after me.
By the time three of them got on, we were smooshed in like a hundred marshmallows shoved into a small plastic sandwich bag.
Viewing the conditions, E6’s husband said, “I’ll take the next trip up.”
“Okay,” I answered.
“No!” The Mouth barked. “There’s room for you! Shove over, kids.”
The kids, doing what little they could, sucked in their stomachs. The husband, toting a gigantic bag of laundry, squeezed through the gate.
Now I was bodily pinned into the corner of the elevator.
Respiration was no longer an option.
A fireball of rage swelled in my stomach, shooting sparks throughout my neural pathways.
As the elevator began its ascent, here were a few of my thoughts:
If I call these people classless, inconsiderate low-lifes right now, do they have enough room to assault me? Because I know The Mouth would. And I’m too cramped to defend myself.
If human combustion is a real phenomenon, I’m at risk. However, if I go up in flames, so will E6.
But wait! I’m not the asshole here. Do I really want to make that kind of sacrifice?
No, I conclude.
Jesus Christ, do these people have to breathe through their mouths? Because, unless I happen to be the person I’m fucking, I don’t want to smell your breath.
Stop. Fucking. Breathing.
I don’t like to say I hate anyone, but. . .I think I hate these people.
My plan of killing them with kindness?
It’s not working out.Stalked by CVS →
It’s been sweltering hot the last few days. I A) have no air conditioning except in my bedroom — a room so chaotic, it’s hard to find the bed; B) am pathologically attached to my living room; C) am on the sixth and top floor of my building; and D) am skirting the edge of menopause.
Outside of my bedroom, if I so much as wiggle a pinky toe, I’m immediately soaked with sweat. So. . .
Mostly, I’ve been staring at my living room wall in front of a fan, trying not to move.
I’ve had epiphanies:
If I wanted to check myself out at the grocery store, I’d have become a cashier.
I must stop initiating conversations that I’m not well-informed enough to sustain.
Should stop wishing catastrophes on people who crack their gum.
I need to accept that things — cherished sweatshirts, socks, sex toys — eventually wear out.
Rather than obsessing on where dust comes from, I should shut up and clean it.
I’m quite certain that I was born to be a surfer. (To test this, I’ll take my ironing board into the shower and see how long I stay on.)
The urge to confess:
As a therapist, now and again I can’t help finding humor in my work.
After complimenting one client’s ivory necklace, she told me, “It’s from Thailand, but I don’t know which elephant.”
One young woman said she didn’t find masturbation “a good use of her time.”
Many years ago (God, please forgive me) another client tried to commit suicide by smothering himself with a pillow. Twice, he attempted this. (I’m betting he’s still alive.)
Random facts I’ve pondered to keep me entertained:
Days before my wedding (I’ve been divorced many years) I dreamed the reception was in the basement of White Castle.
Recently, I left my boyfriend and cat in my living room to take a shower. Before turning the water on I heard, “If you’ve got something to say, just say it.”
Growing up in Montana, my 87 year old grandmother trudged along a pasture on her walk to school every day. She wasn’t the brightest (yes, I am going to hell) but on Youtube, her gutteral, bovine imitations (MOOOOO!) would be stupendous enough to go viral.
I told my dentist my favorite offensive joke. He giggled like a schoolgirl.
I took a sample Mensa quiz. Turns out I’m stupid. I wear the label with pride.
Excuse me while I go shop for an igloo on eBay.Your Therapist’s Secrets | The Messages: Doom Of The Betta Fish →
Did you ever wonder what your therapist is thinking? A therapist myself, I’ll disclose some things she probably won’t tell you:
There are weeks you have it more together than she does.
She sometimes battles the urge to babble about her cat’s exquisite cuteness.
Hopes you’ll come five minutes late so she can sneak a peek at Twitter or Facebook.
Would love to hear specifics about your sex life.
Leaves notes for people who take up two parking spaces.
Is on Zoloft.
If your therapist is one to put her feet up during sessions, she’ll go to extremes to peel the price off of the bottom of her shoes. (Pay Less? Gucci? Either way, it’s too much information.)
If your therapist says, “We’re out of time” and you start bitching about your Aunt Kate, she’ll be annoyed. Doubly so if she has to pee.
If you rub your eyes and mess up your eyebrows — hairs going every which way — it will drive her batshit crazy.
Now and again, her attention is focused on sucking in her gut.
Or stifling an urge to scratch an itch in her crotch.
Or wondering what the hell to say next.
She cares deeply about you, but, as you see, can be a little neurotic.
She hopes you can forgive her that.Independence Day: Set Me Free From. . . | The Heat Wave: Epiphanies and Confessions →