It's Okay, You Don't Really Have to be My Neighbor

Hawaiian shirt guy spoke to me for the first time today. Usually he just leans forward and watches me walk by over the top of his cube, but he actually came to my cube and spoke to me this morning. He and his neighbors in the first two rows neglect to turn the lights on every morning. Initially, I thought maybe they assumed this was an administrative duty, and huffed my way over there all the while muttering under my breath that it's not difficult to turn the lights on, nor is it my job. So, this morning when I turned on the lights, he came by moaning because they are used to working in the dark. He told me of his several years in Hawaii (hmm, hence the shirts?) where he worked in a basement, and that lack of light except from a computer screen is actually good for the eyes. It is summer outside. I'm already bitter enough that I miss the vast majority of summer, except for walking to and from my car, and that it's so seasonless in here that I have to wear sleeves year round. Really, would it be so terrible, especially in the absence of natural light, to have the lights on? I told him I was sorry to make things difficult for him, but that I would have to buy one of those Sharper Image natural light simulators to prevent my own suicide if there were no light in here. I assume he will adjust. But he wouldn't go away, so I hope he doesn't think we have a connection now. Because how much can you really say about lights? This is pretty much all I've got.

I made the journey to the tiniest apartment ever this weekend, and it all went quite well. I am brainstorming creative ways to store my clothing under my bed and to cook on a slanted stove. S autéeing chicken on the equivalent of a ski slope is not an easy task. Also, I found what appears to be poo under my kitchen sink. Needless to say, I am none too pleased about this development. You better believe my landlord has already heard from me on this troubling matter.

The parents saw the place last night and actually approved, which is no small feat. Granted, they saw it on the heels of seeing The Boy's place for the first time, which is much like a live action version of "City Mouse, Country Mouse." Really, it's like time travel from after to before winning the lottery. But it's my space and I don't have to share it (except with the owner of the under-the-sink poo), and that in and of itself is worth the price of admission. Upon bringing friends up to see the place on Monday, I pointed out that, while it is no architectural gem, there are aspects of the outside that feel European to me. Gabe gestured to the rubble from the renovations next door and said, "Hmm, yes. This does feel very...Post-World War II." Nice.

This morning I met the neighbor across the hall, Laura.
Me: "Hi. I'm Christina; I just moved in. My car is the red one, in case I ever block you in."
Her: "I'm Laura. I was gone all weekend, but I heard voices the other day and figured someone moved in. Any car with a Connecticut plate will be mine, but the one out there right now isn't actually mine, because it's in Connecticut getting fixed because I put a Michael Jackson cd in it and couldn't get it out of the player. Now that's fixed, but something else is being worked on. So I have my dad's car and I was listening to the same Michael Jackson cd and it's stuck again, and he's gonna be so pissed at me for effing up another cd player."
Me: "It was nice to meet you?"
But really I was thinking, for the love, do you really need any clearer direction to stop listening to Michael Jackson?