by Chrissann Nickel
I have a confession to make: for the most part, I have stopped cleaning my own house. I’ll still keep the kitchen from getting unsightly and straighten up here and there (clutter, in particular, makes me feel unhinged), but I have since outsourced* the heavy lifting to a fastidious housekeeper named Edwina.
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*Side note: Can I just take a moment and say how much I love using the word “outsourced”? I got the word slash concept from a book I read recently, 168 Hours: You Have More Time Than You Think, and have since begun to implement its ingenious time management tactics in my life. To say I am outsourcing my cleaning duties makes me feel disproportionately important, like I’m some high-tech corporation who has decided their bottom line is better off having workers in a small village in Beijing deal with their wretched complain-y customers. Though in my case, I have determined it is a better use of my time to have a lovely woman who is a much more skilled cleaner than I deal with my dust and grime.
~
In the beginning, Edwina used to scare me. A short, yet sturdy, militant woman with a scowl that can melt faces, I always tried to stay out of her way and made sure I didn’t do anything to piss her off. She works part-time for the resort we live at and was born and raised in the Caribbean. She grew up on one of the rougher islands – the kind that has yet to be refined for tourism and where people, until very recently, used to get hacked with machetes at the bus stop (or so I’ve been told).
Our first real encounter, or “meet cute” as they say in show business, really set the tone for the rest of our relationship. She was cleaning our louvered windows and had been going in and out of the front door to dust them from both sides. I was doing the dishes when I suddenly felt her presence directly behind me as she yelled, “Pussy Lady!”. I dropped the pot I was scrubbing and turned to face her with trepidation, shaking when I saw her finger pointed at my face.
“Why you need so much pussy?!” she growled and abruptly stalked off.
As I stood in my kitchen, frozen with soap suds dripping off my hands, I racked my brain for what she could possibly be referring to. Were there rumors being spread at the resort about me having lesbian tendencies? Was she under the impression that I was not only a lesbian, but a slutty one at that? Seeing as how I reside with my boyfriend/her boss, it seemed unlikely that she would draw this conclusion. I later cornered her niece for an explanation and it turns out Edwina was admonishing me not for my supposed sexual escapades, but for my contemptible life choice in having not just one, but two cats. Either way, I was hooked. Anyone who can scream borderline offensive decrees laced with sexual innuendos at a relative stranger is a friend of mine.
Edwina now comes to clean every other week or so. David and I aren’t super messy, we just need the detritus of everyday life smoothed over from time to time. It’s really a win-win for everyone: I have more time to spend on the work that is really important to me without feeling guilty or lazy for neglecting our house and Edwina gets to make some extra cash and do what she loves most – cleaning. Early on, she told me her favorite things are cleaning, ironing, and cooking; so much so that even after working as a housekeeper all day she still doesn’t mind going home and cleaning her own house. And because I hate those things, I knew we would complement each other immensely. Yin and yang.
I cherish the days Edwina comes; not only is my house magically clean at the end of the day thanks to zero effort on my part, but she is also fantastic company. Always ready to dispense her own personal brand of wisdom, I sit at the computer working and she goes about her cleaning, interjecting from time to time as though we were already in the midst of a conversation. Some of her most recent gems include:
Edwina on Dust
When Edwina first began cleaning our house, she was appalled at the state of my screens, blinds, and ceiling fan blades. I agree that they had a fair amount of dust coating their surfaces, but I didn’t feel it was out of control. And in my defense, I tried to clean them all once and it ended up being a 3-day tedious affair so, of course, I never did it again. To her, this was a potentially lethal mistake:
“You know wha’ happen when all ‘dis dust get in you lungs? You get sick. An’ ‘den you die. D’is dust, it kills.”
Edwina on Diseases
I enjoy a house with a jungle-y feel and tend to decorate with a lot of houseplants. While I am proud of my ability to keep them alive and green, Edwina has nothing but disdain for my reckless decision to keep them in my home. Each time she mops the floors, she moves the plants around and warns me of their inherent danger:
“D’ese plants – you water ‘dem – that’s when de mosquitoes come. You know wha’ mosquitoes do? D’ey lay egg in de water. Dem baby hatch. D’en they bite you and you get dengue fever. And you die.”
Edwina on Children
In the Caribbean, for a woman my age to not have her own gaggle of children is a bit of an anomaly. Edwina frequently inquires about my future child-bearing plans and when I remind her that I don’t like kids and have never wanted any, she tries to change my mind with a numbers game:
“You tink you don’ like dem kids? No matter. Jus’ have one anyway. You never know if you like dem til you try. Me – I have 5 chil’ren. I only hate one.”
On her her most recent visit, she asked if she could warm her lunch in my microwave before she left. I ran over to the kitchen, embarrassed for her to open it, remembering the cupcake frosting meltdown that David and I were too tired to clean up the previous night. I began apologizing in advance for the bright red, sugary state of affairs that was my microwave when she grabbed my arm to stop me.
“Listen,” she said, “don’ try to impress me. Don’ try to be perfect. D’ere no such ting.”
So wise. And my fan blades are so shiny, I can see myself in them. Yup, she’s a keeper.
by Baldrick
It is the eve before I depart on my newly initiated annual trip to New Orleans. With the time showing just minutes to 11pm, it has become apparent that a) I have yet again left packing to the last minute and b) I have absolutely nothing to wear. I realize, of course, that every woman has nothing to wear, but I really do have nothing to wear.
Two years on this rock has resulted in the complete and utter demise of my entire wardrobe. My clothes have been bleached by the sun, degraded by the salt, discoloured, tattered, and half-eaten by bugs. It is only when I’m about to re-enter my old world that I take a good look at myself and realise that not only are my clothes desperately in need of attention, so too am I. Which is where I find myself now: instead of excitedly anticipating tomorrow’s adventure, I have faffed about for hours and performed a slightly manic last minute groom. Now I need to pack.
Fortunately, I always schedule a shopping day into the first part of my trip. I’d love to do this at home and spend my precious holiday time doing something more exciting, but, sadly, my nearest town holds little more than a couple of tourist shops whose selection of brightly coloured “been there, seen that” t-shirts hold little appeal. So instead, I pick a town with a mall for the start of my trip and prepare a list of all the items I need to buy. I then waste an entire day of my vacation traipsing around, overwhelmed by all the choices, outraged by the crowds of people, and thoroughly fed up by the end of it. I’ve learnt that snack stops are essential, margaritas preferable, and that throwing in a movie mid-shop lifts everyone’s moods (just an FYI, this is especially essential if you’re shopping with your partner in tow).
While pretty much everything needs replacing, there are two items that I require in bulk: flip flops and knickers. When I’m not barefoot, the flip flop really is the only foot attire worn on the island. I’m currently wearing out pair #28 since my arrival. This may seem excessive but they just seem to be one of those things that either go missing or fall apart, much like a lot of things on an island. They also have to tolerate a 6’6″ giant’s (a.k.a. the aforementioned partner’s) repeated attempts to remove them from my feet. Some people it seems, like a cat without whiskers, are unable to estimate their size and have a tendency to step on my heels whilst I’m walking, stretching the life out of my flip flops. It is this perfected technique which has now taken me from 8 pairs in September down to 2 pairs today.
The need for a bulk purchase of knickers may sound odd, but know that as much as I like sexy lingerie, I’m not really into the crotchless variety – which is what I’m currently stuck with. I don’t know how many pairs the average woman goes through in a year, but I suspect I go through considerably more. There are two reasons for this, neither of which are kinky: underwear-eating bugs and something my gran told me as a child.
The bugs have not been identified, but I’ve been told by a former island dweller that it is likely the small green crickets, as they have a taste for cotton and lace. I’ve yet to find one hopping out of my underwear drawer, but they can often be heard chirping away from inside the walls of my bedroom, so it’s quite possible that they are the culprit. A quick online search for underwear-eating insects suggests that I’m not alone and neither are the crickets – apparently moths, mice, and something called silverfish also like to terrorize people’s bloomers. The first hole can be easily dismissed, but more than one and you start to question whether or not you should be wearing these, which leads me to my gran.
As a child, she told me to “always make sure you have clean underwear on”. While this is a reasonable request in terms of hygiene, I find it slightly ludicrous if you know what it is that my gran is actually referring to. For those of you who weren’t given this line as a child, the real point of having clean underwear on when you leave the safe confines of your house is all about limiting your embarrassment were you to be in a serious accident. By which I mean, the type of accident where someone other than you needs to remove your clothing for you. I’m fast approaching my mid-thirties and this phrase still runs through my head in the morning. When faced with a new style of gusset lace, I ponder, “If a stranger where to see these, would I be embarrassed?” If the answer is yes, in the bin they go, and here lies my never-ending quest for new underwear.
But this time around, I shall return to the rock prepared. For not only will I be bringing a year’s supply of underwear and flip flops, but I shall also be picking up a year’s supply of lavender bags. After much research, it would appear that the old fashioned remedies are still the most effective at repelling pesky little insects. Going forward, I will now have bay leaves in my pasta jar and lavender in my knickers drawer. I seem to remember my gran doing the same – perhaps there is wisdom to her words…
by Melissa Rogati
Back when my husband and I first got married, we lived on a somewhat small and very sparsely populated island in the southern Bahamas. All the Bahamian locals were friendly and welcoming. A lot of them remain good friends today that I still keep in touch with. We were asked to dinner often and while it was always delicious, it was always “local”: Jamaican curry goat, fish and grits, and all the lobster a girl could dream of (steamed, boiled, grilled, baked, sautéed). Lobster was plentiful there because everyone, including me, speared it themselves.
But these dinners were always out of my comfort zone as well. As fun as they were, they were never quite “comfortable”. I had to explain over and over again why, because of my suburban Atlanta upbringing, I didn’t mind one bit giving up the eyeballs out of my fish to someone more excited about the treat. Or why I wasn’t “finishing” my chicken by sucking every last bit of gristle and tendon off and even removing the marrow from the bone. Or that I really would rather let the home’s resident nine-year-old finish my Vita Malt (I could never figure out exactly what the thick, warm, heavily-malted beverage was good with). No one was ever rude about my finicky nature and I wouldn’t give up the years I lived among those friends for anything, but due to my polite Southern upbringing (you finish what the host serves you, say thank you, and possibly take another helping), I always left feeling like I had been somewhat rude for leaving the fins of the fish on my plate. And no one likes to constantly leave dinner parties feeling rude.
Toward the end of our time on that island, a couple from Key West moved in a few dirt roads down from ours. They had spent many many years of their life living on their sailboat and decided it was time to settle down (for at least half the year) and build a permanent structure they could spend winters in. It was so nice to have people moving in near us because our home was so remote. Maybe 3-4 other people lived out on our long road in our sparsely populated settlement. Multiple days could go by without another car driving down our road. So here we were, with new potential friends right in the “neighborhood.” They invited us over one night for a little dinner party, and the thought was so comforting and familiar (steak fajitas! margaritas! guacamole!) that I could barely stand the wait. When you live and eat outside of your comfort zone for long stretches at a time, the thought of a brief encounter with the familiar really lifts your spirits. They even invited us to bring my dog over instead of leaving her home alone. New friends (not easy to come by in such a small place). Familiar food. An evening I had no way of failing at.
You see where this is going, don’t you…
On the highly anticipated evening of our little gathering, Seth and I loaded ourselves, our appetizer contribution, a bottle of wine, and my dog, Saylor, up into our truck for the 1/2 mile dirt road drive to their place. Once there, Saylor bounded out of the truck and tore furiously around the yard. Because I didn’t have a fence at our house, she didn’t get a lot of free time outside. I decided to let her run while I carried the appetizer inside. About three minutes later, I came out and called her name. Nothing. I wandered down the driveway a bit a called again. Nothing. Annoyed that she might have run into the dense island bush surrounding their yard, I called louder. Then I wandered out into the road, and there she was. I could see her shape lit up under a lonely street lamp on the little dirt road, not moving, lying on her side. None of us had heard the car. Maybe one, two at most, would drive down our road in a day’s time. But in the three minutes I had carried our appetizer inside for our glorious, long-anticipated dinner party (steak! on our island! completely unheard of!) with our new potential friends, someone had driven by and hit her without stopping.
I stood in the road, crying, and yelled for Seth. He came out with our new friends following behind him. They were now confronted with us: two people they had just met for a total of ten minutes, invited into their home, now standing and crying in the road with my dead dog lying ten feet away. (Clarification: I was distraught. Saylor, named after a very dear friend, had been my dog prior to marriage and Seth’s arrival on the island. She had kept me company as I lived there alone for a few years. Seth didn’t have much of a problem holding himself together.) There were no vets on our island. One would come from a bigger island once every few months. If you had a dog you needed spayed or neutered, he’d do it for you then. In your driveway. Or on a back patio table. So there was nowhere to take her. I was so thankful that we were able to determine that she was, in fact, dead because on that island when you had an animal that was suffering, the only option was to call a police officer and have them shoot it. You think having your dog hit by a car can ruin a dinner party? Imagine having the police come over to shoot it in the head. That’s pretty much the definition of party foul. But fortunately, that wasn’t necessary.
Our new friends offered to help us bury her. So with our fajitas and fresh guac waiting inside, we loaded my dead dog into the truck and drove her home as I continued to cry. Seth and our brand new friends took turns and dug a big hole in our side yard, wrapped her up in an empty dog food bag (as a deterrent to other dogs thinking they’d dig her up), covered her with rocks (also a deterrent), and buried her. They even brought a palm tree to plant on top of her (another deterrent – though this was a long way from home where my family buried hamsters wrapped up in pretty cloth and planted azaleas on top of them). After burying our dog, our new potential friends said something along the lines of, “Well, we still have fajitas…”
Remember when I said I was so excited about this dinner party because I knew it would be comfortable and familiar? Almost like I was home again? That there was no way I could mess it up? No fish heads to leave on my plate? Or bits of a goat’s leg bone chips to spit out? Well, yeah, having my dog die and then allowing practical strangers to help us bury her within the first 30 minutes of our dinner party topped all of those. So I drank margaritas and cried all the way through the next few hours. And they made sure my glass stayed full.
I don’t remember much about the rest of the night, but we must have made a good impression because we’re still friends with this couple today. (Meaning, Seth must have made a good impression because I lost count of my margaritas and the tears only increased per drink.) We went beaching with them. They gave us plants for our yard and helped me learn about gardening. We exchanged recipes that were possible with the limited ingredients available on island. When we needed it months later, they helped us out with some of the moving process as we prepared to move our life to another island. But, I can’t say I remember being invited to any other dinner parties at their house.
by Ashley Ladlie
I appreciate a thorough investigation. A good ‘ole fashioned puzzler requiring some research and critical analysis is even sorta fun for me. This has been helpful while managing ten 60’s-era condos on a small, secondary island. I’m often required to balance my Sherlock Holmes cap atop all the other hats I don to get the job done. And while I’ve rarely shied away from a challenge attached to a paycheck, solving mechanical and maintenance issues will never be one of my many talents.
Mystery: Why is the water pump running without guests in the building?
Answer: Because a leak has gone undetected in a storage closet for weeks.
Mystery: Why did the utility bill triple despite less use of the AC?
Answer: Because the water pump ran continually to keep up with the leak.
Mystery: Why do I smell mildew in the entryway of one particular condo?
Answer: Because there’s a hole in the roof, and it’s raining on the ceiling tiles.
Last week brought two mysteries. I suspected a common link, but couldn’t be sure.
A strange noise had presented itself on a few different occasions. A splatter splat splat pitter pat of liquid hitting my roof, deck and sometimes the ground behind my cottage. It sounded like Sally, the housekeeper, dumping mop water onto my roof. But she hadn’t done this for several months, ever since I told her my bedroom ceiling leaked in the exact place she dumped the water. Besides, she wouldn’t have been mopping at the time of the splatters.
I hoped it was just the guests staying above my cottage dumping out cooler water from their veranda. This made the most sense.
It made the most sense, that is, except for my worst fear as property manager: the dreaded sewer backup.
Which brings me to the second mystery of the week.
I had also just noticed — when walking across the deck toward my front door — a pissy smell. So. There was also a sneaking suspicion that raw sewage was spilling under my deck after every flush due to a burst pipe. Or something equally unfortunate. This could explain the sporadic splatter splat splat pitter pat that I’d heard on the deck. Maybe it only sounded like it was on the roof. A ventriloquist sound effect. But if it was raw sewage, wouldn’t I be smelling #2 in addition to #1?
It worried me enough to put the mystery sound/smell combo at the top of the next day’s maintenance list. The handyman validated my concern the following morning. Upon reaching the top deck stair, he did not offer the usual salutation. Instead, he asked through my kitchen window, “Why I smellin’ piss?”
He determined that it was cat piss— a tom must be spraying. It wasn’t possible, he assured, for a pipe to have broken in the place I smelled urine. So it must be a cat.
click for photo credit
Since I had definitely caught more than one acrid whiff of cat piss, and since this is not a rare thing to smell on the property, I let it go at that. Although, I must admit that part of me knew I’d also smelled the separate and distinct odor of human piss in the area directly outside my kitchen window. But having many other things to fret over, I de-esclated the sound/smell mystery for the day.
Fortunately, the truth emerged (as it often does) quite organically later that evening. Or should I say, very early the next morning.
I woke up at 2:30 am to splatter splat splat pitter pat on the deck outside my kitchen window. Checking my phone for the time, I saw a text sent 15 minutes earlier from my across-the-street neighbor. She apologized for bothering me so late, but said there was a guest locked out of his condo making quite a racket trying to get back in. Yelling for Mom and throwing rocks at windows for upwards of 30 minutes, I later discovered.
This was perplexing. The condo she mentioned was currently vacant.
But then I remembered another text received earlier that evening from the guests staying two stories above my cottage. They wanted to know which bars in Cruz Bay I recommended for a younger crowd, asking on behalf of their 19-year-old son. Being a helpful host, I suggested four, and passed along the message to have fun and be safe.
It occurred to me that the teenager must be confused as to which condo is his. While he harassed the empty condo at the top of the stairs in the lower building, his family slept at the top of the stairs in the upper building. I pulled on some clothes and went outside prepared to guide his drunkity butt home. Stepping onto the deck, I noticed some fresh puddles on the otherwise dry wood directly below my kitchen window. That is, the spot from which I’d heard the splatter splat splat that had woke me just now. I bent down and sniffed. Sure enough. Piss.
Now I understood. First, the kid must have made it home, seeing as he’d just pissed off of his veranda and onto my deck. To be clear, this is right between my kitchen window and front door. Furthermore, not only did he do this while trashed in the middle of the night just now, he’s been doing it all week during the day. Presumably, in the presence of his parents. Even waving the stream about, it seems, if I’m to trust my ears as regards variety in splatter locale.
This is the splatter splat splat pitter pat noise! This is the piss smell!
Though he’d clearly made it home, I thought to check for good measure. No sooner did I reach the deck stairs when I from above, heard from the kid’s veranda,
“Hi Ashley!”
I spun around, looking up. He smiled down at me from the veranda, swaying a bit. Involuntarily. Like a skyscraper.
“Yeah, a neighbor just texted me complaining about someone banging on a door.”
“Oh, I had the wrong door at first. I’m sorry. Ashley, I’m really really sorry.”
I pointed my index finger at him in classic scolding fashion.
“Go to bed.”
“I’m so so sorry…”
“Go to bed… Go to bed and stop pissing off the veranda.”
“I’m so so sorry…”
I walked toward my door, returning every apology with the directive for bed, accenting it with the finger scold.
“Ashley, I’m so so sorry.”
“Go to bed.”
“I’m sorry.”
“And stop pissing off of the veranda.”
*Click.*
*Lock.*
Case closed.
by Ashley Ladlie
Island life is not hermetically sealed. Excluding those wealthy enough to blast the AC year round, most island residents live with windows open most of the time. Life here has a campy, indoor/outdoor vibe. Generally speaking, people who choose to live on a rock appreciate this aspect of island life. Myself included. Oh, how I longed for open windows and fresh breezes during the upper Midwest’s annual six month hibernation. Always the holdout among roommates over closing windows and turning on the stuffy AC, I only shutter-up now when desperate for some privacy from my home/work.
The screened-in-bubble room
This means I’m subject to all neighborhood noises. In addition to the sound-scape of birds and tree frogs that you might expect to enjoy in the tropics, the following make up the discordant symphony of life surrounding my Love City abode:
Roosters Crowing. My recent bout with insomnia allowed the opportunity to log the day’s first crow. Yesterday was 3:17 am. This morning a bit earlier at 3. Crowing continues in surround sound, growing more boisterous until somewhere between 8 and 9 am. Then they lay off for a few hours until mid-afternoon. Not that there is any official schedule. My mom listened to a cock doodle-doo all night once and swore that by dawn it was hoarse.
Hens Laying. Have I yet mentioned that families of free-range chickens roam the island? Despite growing up in farm country, I somehow managed to avoid familiarizing myself with the sound of a hen laying an egg. Now that I live on a Caribbean island, I experience this wretched ear-pollution at least once a week. It’s probably not so dissimilar to what you or I would sound like mid egg-lay, except that the horrific bawwwks of pain are separated with clucks instead of curses.
Hen with hatchlings in tow.
Heavy Equipment. Two houses and one resort monstrosity are being built up the hill, bringing all sorts of loud construction machines to the ‘hood. During excavation, we’re tortured with the percussion of jackhammers throughout the entire work day. One guest suggested they might refrain from jack-hammering until 9am, so as not to disturb those on vacation. It would be nice, indeed, but I chose not to march my white ass up the hill and ask the construction crew to postpone their workday by an hour.
Cat Yowls. I can never tell if I’m overhearing a stand-off or a sex-off. Either way, I’m disturbed and embarrassed.
West Indian Neighbor’s Soundtrack. Up the hill lives a local gentleman whose taste in music vacillates between two extremes. He mostly favors Calypso and its sub-genre, Soca. With song titles like,”Big Banana,” “Bring de Kitty,” and “Cherry Garden”, it’s some of the raunchiest, most innuendo-filled music I’ve encountered. But a good chunk of the time he’s in a more pious state, favoring Christian and Gospel. For the first year, I could stomach the Jesus songs only because they were in the calypso style, so I could extract some charm from their uninvited presence in my home. But then came the Lenten mix. Played over and over again. Daily. And songs like,”He Liivvveess….He Liiivvveesss…..He Lives Inside My Heart!,” started to loop in my head. The seasonal nadir being the day a guest returned from church singing the same song. It was like having the black version coming out of my right speaker while the inferior white version blared from the left.
*Click for photo credit
White Neighbor’s Love Mix. I know when the white neighbors up the hill are feeling amorous because I am suddenly assaulted with early 90’s ballads from the likes of Celine Dionne and Whitney Houston.
Neighbor Sneezes. Different neighbor? Same one? Not sure. But someone sneezes so violently and in such rapid succession that I was initially concerned a vital blood vessel might rupture. I’m told by a predecessor that this sneezing has gone on for over a decade, which tells me there are no immediate health concerns.
Sunday Funday, Santo Style. Maybe the least annoying track on this tape is the Spanish music played by the Santos down the hill. (Santo is local nomenclature for people from Santo Domingo, the capital of the Dominican Republic.) I learned immediately upon arrival that Sunday is their day to relax with the family, have fun, and party. Their music adds exotic spice to the neighborhood. Their laughter adds zest for life. The few times it has devolved into fighting, I could do without.
THUMP.
Iguana Falls. Iguanas are known for falling out of trees. Especially during summer when the flamboyants are in bloom. Sometimes they’ve fallen asleep. Sometimes they’re clumsily trying to reach a precarious bloom. But it’s a frequent occurrence to hear a loud THUMP in the yard, followed a few seconds later by the crunch of twigs and leaves as the iguana works its way back to the base of the tree. Twice I’ve been startled awake from the sound of one hitting my bedroom roof. Last year, I came upon a dead one inches from the building. It gave me quite a start. My only guess as to how he found this fate was by hitting his head during a fall from the roof. Most of the time, however, these prehistoric critters are amazingly resilient.
Car Barge. Some communities have clock or bell towers marking the hours. I have the screeching car barge ramps. Whenever I hear the nails-on-chalkboard sound of the gate going up, I know it’s either the top or bottom of the hour. A good friend who works on one of the barges was shocked to hear it from my house. I asked if bringing a can of WD-40 down the hill and offering to oil the hinges might help, but he claims the problem requires more than a routine lube job.
*click for photo credit
Tarzan Calls. I can’t be certain, but I think this is the same fellow with the schizophrenic music mix. At least once, but sometimes several times a day, he emits what I can honestly best describe as a Tarzan yell. At first, I thought I was hearing an orgasm noise, and was again, a bit embarrassed. Then someone told me they thought he was a Calypso singer, and maybe these were vocal exercises. This made sense, especially considering his predilection for the genre. But then a few weeks ago, I was at a group meditation where we were taught how to scream into towels as a means of releasing stress and other negative emotions. There were several pros at this group, and once the meditation began and the towel-screaming commenced around me, I couldn’t help but think this sounds exactly like my neighbor. So maybe it’s just a primal scream sort of activity to purge frustrations.
Property Noises. And so I can always be reminded that I’m at work even when I’m at home, I am intimate with all of the property’s noises: gravel crunching in parking lots and on paths, the distinct sound of each condo’s door, the pool pump turning on and off, guests talking and sliding lounge chairs. I’m most grateful for being keenly in touch with the slam of the gate closing when someone approaches my cottage. The only time I’ve stood watching the clock, waiting for it to chime 10pm so I could enforce the noise rule, was when a lovely, extended Korean family visited for a wedding. And brought along, all the way from Canada, their karoake machine. Even my AC and headphones couldn’t drown out the sound of my favorite Elvis ballad, “I Can’t Help Farring in Rove with You.”
*Click for image credit
No surprise then, that I burn through a couple pairs of padded ear-encompassing headphones a year. If anyone is planning to get me a 30th birthday present in June, I’d love a set of the Bose noise-cancelling variety. Thanks.
