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Sunday, Aug. 10, 2003 / 12:23 p.m. ~From the Blog~ I know it's an apartment 'complex', implying that it's far too complex for one mail carrier to deliver all the packages ordered and now received, on any given day, to the actual recipients, but I want him to come to my door with my turntable. I didn't want him to dump it at the office down the street where packages are now dumped because our office has mysteriously been de-staffed. Why aren't we apprised of these goings on? Other than that all too familiar salmon colored slip in the box, the one with the dump address on it, usually written as "Leasing Office", but now, "That OTHER Leasing Office, down the street, the one that IS staffed, because YOUR Leasing Office has been mysteriously and apparently permanently DE-STAFFED, so you have to drive or walk down the street to get your whatever it is, books, music, TURNTABLE so you can listen to your mother's and your father's and maybe some other dead relative's old 78 rpm records". Unh huh. I don't even know if they're open on Sundays. But all I have to do is shower and get dressed and drive down the street to find out. Hell no, I'm not walking, what do you think this is, the country? It's the fucking 'hood, and I do NOT walk around here. It's transient city, it's who the hell are my neighbors?-ville. Oh, here's a reminder, last night, coming home from a really lovely drive to town to get Thai takeout from my favorite Thai restaurant, which was inexplicably not hopping on a Saturday night at prime time, a 20 minute drive, each way, lovely temperatures, lovely hotter and steamier as I drove over the river, and then cooler in spots, then warmer, lovely, did I say lovely?, I get out of my car in the parking lot, after parking in one of the money spots, the ones that are shaded late afternoon, knowing this to be the advantage for later, mmmmm, later, there are the shirtless men on the porch that's second floor, perpendicular to mine, the one on which they sit, shirtless, looking in to MY apartment, and there are THREE this time, and the music is going, the Salsa music, and they are watching me, I can FEEL them watching me, but I proceed, as I LIVE here, and I get to my door, insert key, see them in my peripheral, and they are all staring, only feet away really, and one... WHISTLES at me. That's right. Cat call. WHISTLE. I come in and close my vertical blinds immediately. I cannot use my own porch or we'd be locked in a staredown. This morning I go to make coffee, look out the porch, as it is the only window in my living room, not a window, a porch with sliding glass door, a porch looking out over the parking lot, and the building that sits perpendicular, and there sits one shirtless wonder, looking my way. Friday night I saw the back of one, and he turned to look at me, as if the other had said, "Mira, ella aqui", or whatever, I haven't studied Spanish since 9th grade, and for all I know they are Brazilian and it's Portuguese they speak to each other, roughly translated, "Look, there she is!". Joy. It's a studio apartment, that one, how many actually live there? And what is wrong with them that they sit three shirtless whistling at neighbor women on a Saturday night? Ay yi yi! I want my fucking turntable. Cost of the War in Iraq
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