I received the good news that my MDiv equivalency application has been received by the reviewers. However, there still does not seem to be any rush to finish everything else, so things are proceeding slowly.
I think I have written about a particularly annoying neighbor here before. This fellow steps out of his back door in a neighboring building three to eight times per day, takes a hit off a joint or uses a blue plastic bong, loudly coughs his head off, hawks up a giant loogie, and expectorates noisily onto the ground. It is beyond revolting, and it sometimes happens twice within ten minutes’ time.
A couple of weeks ago, I drafted a letter to him, meaning to copy everyone else in his building. It began, “To the disgusting pig who … ” and concluded by saying I was prepared to hire a hit man to kill him if I heard this sound one more time. The sound is horrendous, but it is, as always, partly the principle of the thing: if everyone else can figure out how to do such activities in their own bathroom, why can’t this person? If no one else feels entitled to visit such a thing on 40 or 50 neighbors, why does this (white male) person?
Nonetheless, threatening murder was clearly a bit extreme. I deleted this letter and went back to brooding. My next plan was to send a much more polite note, and the plan after that, still in effect, was to try to see this person as my teacher, on the theory that strong reactions tell us where we are stuck.
The teacher known as Disgusting Phlegm Generator joins others, including Never-Ending Noisy Next-Door Home Improvement Project and Co-Worker Who Will Not Wear a Mask.
My most recent trip to Rainbow was similar to others lately. I asked a worker in the bulk area if they are sort of cycling through the various olives as they decide which ones to package up, and mentioned that black olives with herbs are my favorites. The worker reached under the olive counter and stood up holding a big bucket. “You mean these? How many do you want?” He put some in a container for me. Yay!
Now that my shirt lady has closed up shop, new procedures are needed. I mentioned to a co-worker that it takes me half an hour to iron a button-down shirt and she said she can do it in ten minutes, thanks to having earned pocket money in her youth by taking in ironing. I figured that if anyone at all can do this in ten minutes, there must be some way to do it in less than half an hour, and the next time I tried it, I found that I actually could iron a shirt in 12-15 minutes, which is great (and also means I’ve thrown an astronomical amount of money down the drain over the years).
The shirts I ironed looked better than the ones I get back from the shirt lady, and I also noticed a greasy stain on one of them that may have been there for some time, since I don’t normally have occasion to glance at every square inch of a shirt. Part of what made it faster was telling myself that I was just trying to do a modest touch-up so as to make a slight improvement in the appearance of the shirt. Accordingly, I sprayed with water very lightly, and didn’t try to make anything look perfect.
I also came upon a mock turtleneck at Lands’ End in a vibrant purple color and ordered a couple. When I tried one on, I thought it looked absolutely good enough for work, but am not sure if it would be too warm, or if I’d feel like I’m choking. I’ll wear one to work and see how it goes. If it’s fine, maybe I’ll switch entirely to these, or at least there would be an alternative in the closet if some week I can’t get to the ironing. Since this color was on sale—it’s fortunate that everyone other than me evidently thought it was ugly—I got a couple more, just in case.
Hammett would have been 14 on April 14. That was a hard day. I miss him so much. I can hear his little voice, and sometimes think I am seeing him before realizing it cannot be so. For 30 years, there has been a black cat hanging around, Hammmett for 13.5 years, and Thelonious for 16.5 years before that, with only 12 days between them.
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