My favorite dep owner has been seen walking around my building, looking for me smoking on the balcony. I haven't been into his place for a week and a half since a friend hooked me up with some Yankee tobacco.
Thus, he has an extra carton and a half of Dunhills in his inventory. Whoops! He's going to be right pissed when I move.
26.7.07
24.7.07
Condo for Sale- slightly distressed
Rachel walks across the parking lot behind the triplex- firm steps in black high heels. Beige skirt, summer blouse, black, billowing in the afternoon breeze. Her office is sending her emails to her purse right now, but she won't answer. Can't. She left work early to come deal with this nightmare that has gone on for months.
She rounds the corner to the front of the building where Marc is sitting waiting for her. He is wearing shorts and sandals and that horrible pink golf shirt he thinks looks good on him. But he's not sitting on the first steps, he is sitting six or seven steps up, so he will have the upper ground. His cell phone is out and open- he's pretending to read text messages? From who? His broker? Like brokers keep in touch with day-traders. It's like a dep owner keeping in touch with customers addicted to scratch-and-win tickets.
The for sale sign is still out in front. The face of their pathetic agent is vainly peering out trying to project confidence, professionalism and friendliness all at the same time. She thinks he looks like a child molester instead.
5 months now, since the separation and now 4 weeks since the divorce, and not one serious offer on this condo they barely lived in. Their first home together and it stands empty now, a drain on both of their finances, a drain on both of their emotions. How many calls, emails and failed meetings with realtors and other couples must she go through until she can walk away from this thing? It is just a thing- a second floor enclosure of brick and plaster, glass and wiring. It is not a symbol for anything- it was never a promise of any idealized relationship. Never was a place to fall in love all over again, to take the disused den and turn it into a nursery, to grow plants and buy rugs and...
It was a trap. A trap to turn her into one of the neighbourhood wives with thick calves and practical haircuts and baby yoga lessons and small dinners with other couples that end at 11PM. With strollers and "nappy bags" you buy at Wal-Mart. A trap to turn her into a wife and mother and a side note in this man's life.
And here, here he sits looking like a golf pro in front of our condo that we could easily sell for $189k, but he insists on asking for $220k. It stands still and barren, couples who come to view it can sense the failure- the danger of the place. Bad vibes- the tension between the two of them like razor-wire drawn taut all through the space- slashing at their soft parts. Fear. Pain.
His cell phone actually rings. The viewing is canceled. She turns away from him and walks back to the metro without saying a word. She's never coming to show the house again.
She rounds the corner to the front of the building where Marc is sitting waiting for her. He is wearing shorts and sandals and that horrible pink golf shirt he thinks looks good on him. But he's not sitting on the first steps, he is sitting six or seven steps up, so he will have the upper ground. His cell phone is out and open- he's pretending to read text messages? From who? His broker? Like brokers keep in touch with day-traders. It's like a dep owner keeping in touch with customers addicted to scratch-and-win tickets.
The for sale sign is still out in front. The face of their pathetic agent is vainly peering out trying to project confidence, professionalism and friendliness all at the same time. She thinks he looks like a child molester instead.
5 months now, since the separation and now 4 weeks since the divorce, and not one serious offer on this condo they barely lived in. Their first home together and it stands empty now, a drain on both of their finances, a drain on both of their emotions. How many calls, emails and failed meetings with realtors and other couples must she go through until she can walk away from this thing? It is just a thing- a second floor enclosure of brick and plaster, glass and wiring. It is not a symbol for anything- it was never a promise of any idealized relationship. Never was a place to fall in love all over again, to take the disused den and turn it into a nursery, to grow plants and buy rugs and...
It was a trap. A trap to turn her into one of the neighbourhood wives with thick calves and practical haircuts and baby yoga lessons and small dinners with other couples that end at 11PM. With strollers and "nappy bags" you buy at Wal-Mart. A trap to turn her into a wife and mother and a side note in this man's life.
And here, here he sits looking like a golf pro in front of our condo that we could easily sell for $189k, but he insists on asking for $220k. It stands still and barren, couples who come to view it can sense the failure- the danger of the place. Bad vibes- the tension between the two of them like razor-wire drawn taut all through the space- slashing at their soft parts. Fear. Pain.
His cell phone actually rings. The viewing is canceled. She turns away from him and walks back to the metro without saying a word. She's never coming to show the house again.
Anodized Aluminum
I forget which book I was reading where the author used this term, but it struck me. Like vulcanized rubber. Or carbon composite.
From what I understand, though, this is aluminum that has been heat-hardened and possibly coloured in order to make things like MP3 players, cell phones and other consumer crap look pretty and last longer. The best example is the pictured combo bottle opener and key chain- I've had several of these that were made of plastic and they just can't stand up to the punishment I give the damn things.
So- if anyone ever wants to pick me up a nice little surprise, one of these would be great :)
From what I understand, though, this is aluminum that has been heat-hardened and possibly coloured in order to make things like MP3 players, cell phones and other consumer crap look pretty and last longer. The best example is the pictured combo bottle opener and key chain- I've had several of these that were made of plastic and they just can't stand up to the punishment I give the damn things.
So- if anyone ever wants to pick me up a nice little surprise, one of these would be great :)
The Incongruous Blond Woman at 6PM
Several times a week, right around 6PM, a blonde woman walks down my street in front of my front balcony, dressed in what I can only describe as her best clubbing clothes. Black blouses with sheer arms, off the shoulder dresses with big, sparkling clasps.
Her hair is done, perfect makeup, and high heel shoes. She's either a daytime escort or a bartender. Or maybe someone who has made the transition from undergrad student to office employee who doesn't have an office wardrobe yet.
If my balcony was on the first floor I might talk to her to try to find out. For now, though, it is fun to conjecture about her based on these few clues.
Her hair is done, perfect makeup, and high heel shoes. She's either a daytime escort or a bartender. Or maybe someone who has made the transition from undergrad student to office employee who doesn't have an office wardrobe yet.
If my balcony was on the first floor I might talk to her to try to find out. For now, though, it is fun to conjecture about her based on these few clues.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
