My neighbor who used to yell “Hey, neighbor” into my bathroom window—she was darling—moved out because she lost her job and her place was empty for a couple of months and then someone new moved in, whom I overheard saying to a friend, “I’ve never had two bosses at once before,” which struck me as a euphemism, so I concluded she’s a high-end escort, or at least, if she is an escort, I hope she’s a high-end one.
In regard to new neighbors, I have often thought “I hope she doesn’t play loud music late at night. I hope she doesn’t smoke. I hope her friends don’t smoke. Or, if she and/or her friends do smoke, I hope they don’t do it outside my kitchen window. And I hope she doesn’t grill, not that she would find it easy to set up a grill in her own backyard, given how much trash her landlord has dumped there, as well as in the walkway that leads to the front of the building, as well as in the entranceway of the building—if anyone ever drops a match in the wrong place, there is going to be an unbelievable conflagration. I hope I can get out of my own building before it goes up, too.”
In all that, I had neglected to think, “I hope she doesn’t wedge a double-barreled Holmes fan into her bathroom window such that all the hot, wet air in her bathroom ends up in my bathroom instead, and such that I have to listen to the fan running hour after hour, and such that if she uses a horrible perfumed shampoo, the scent will fill my bathroom and I will all but keel over.”
I forgot to think that, and it turns out those are the things my new neighbor does. (She also leaves her bathroom light on virtually all night, which the prior neighbor also did, so that it shines right into my bathroom and on into my hallway, where it reflects right off the doorknob of my front door and lasers into my very eyeball as I lie in my bed in the next room, believe it or not, and even with the bathroom door open only a crack, it’s still noticeable. But that’s not a big deal; it doesn’t keep me up.)
So I drafted her a little note: “You may not have realized how sensitive I am to blah blah blah.” And then I decided, just as a practice in being with what I don’t like, which I’m not good at, to wait for a month before delivering the note.
And then I got used to it! She keeps very irregular hours in her work as a too-expensive-for-most escort, and she often seems to be gone for days at a stretch, and when she’s around, her schedule varies considerably, so it’s not like every single morning at 7:17, a horrible smell comes in my window, and that’s good, because if it did, I would not have gotten used to it, because in that case I would obviously march into bathroom at 7:16 every morning, gnashing my teeth, so as to be on hand for the occurrence of the irritating thing.
As for the noise, if I close my bathroom door nearly all the way, I can barely hear it. If she wants to waste electricity by having it on for hours, that’s her business (I guess), and the perfumed shampoo thing has only happened a couple of times so far, so I deleted my note, and mainly I just appreciate the fact that this person does not smoke, grill, or play loud music.
But I am not kidding about the scents thing. The smell of other people can sometimes bother me now, meaning random non-homeless people who presumably bathe regularly. The smell of some flowers is strangely bad. Irises, as they fade, smell more and more like rancid peanut butter, but even when my latest vase of irises was new, the smell was kind of disturbing, to the point that I might avoid irises henceforth. Asters smell like some forgotten pile of dirt out in the middle of nowhere: not too bad. Good, in fact, if you've forgotten what dirt smells like and want to remember.
Roses still smell wonderful, and so do carnations. I love their crisp, fresh smell, faintly reminiscent of cinnamon. The bunch I got recently lasted for nearly two weeks and smelled marvelous right up until I put them in the compost bin.
I am still beset by intermittent nausea, which I can’t call my doctor about because everything I ever call her about always proves to be nothing, but I’m half-convinced I have the type of cancer that makes you feel nauseous and makes flowers smell bad.
Why are we remembering Jean Kerr? Because she forgot to tell her kids, "Please don't eat the daisies."
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