Today’s squawking comes from a special place, a place called my apartment, a place where I live and work and write and bake and clean and sleep and spend almost all of my waking hours. I suppose I have plenty of other places I could go but I hate shopping, dislike lunching and abhor the indoor gym culture of sweaty stationary bike seats and crinkled dudes in Spandex flexing their power pubes. I want to be here. I like being here. There are a few places I go, but all in all, I want to be home. Home is where the heart is. Home is where the refrigerator is always filled with amazing food I do not cook. Home is where I have two toilets to choose from and really great toilet paper, like wiping with a marshmallow. Home is where there is always laundry to do and I LOVE doing laundry. Seriously love it. It is a weakness I have much like dark chocolate before noon and seeing how long I can go without getting a pedicure or a haircut.
It is clear that I not only enjoy being home but that I am home a lot. Shut in may be too harsh a term but I stick close to my epicenter and that is the way I like it. So, I really do not like it when something or someone disturbs the homestead, the workplace, the napping station, the place where the magic happens, the spot in which I rest my eyes and where Otto enjoys Curious George on a loop.
The Peeping Tom was an unpleasant problem for a while. Finding a pile of cigarette butts next to the cat door did not elicit warm and fuzzy feelings in my happy go lucky cabbage patch, especially when it was not my cat door. Knowing that he was pleasuring himself while staring at some hottie neighbor watching Dancing With The Stars, instead of me, reading The New Yorker in my Old Navy pajamas only made me hate myself more and Tom Bergeron less. But after being chased down by a few of the manly men around here, namely my better half, he has moved on to greener pastures, four blocks east and three blocks north, where his victims own, instead of rent and wonder why they paid 1.7 million dollars for a three bedroom, two bath with dated appliances and a bald, paunchy dude ogling their wives through the guest bathroom window.
No, the new vaginal wart on our neighborhood is a scrawny, straw-haired, crabutante with a face like a thrice-sucked lemon drop and barely enough brainpower to fuel an incomplete sentence. This diminutive dildo, fecal stained Lanvin legging cannot seem to get out of bed long enough to turn her car alarm off. She must find it far too difficult to locate her car keys deep down inside her lavender Birken bag, a salacious sack overcrowded with expired prescription pill bottles and unpaid parking tickets. I mean, carrying around a $12,000, leather Easter egg is exhausting, especially when it attracts young children and feral bunny rabbits, sweet and innocent creatures that want nothing more than the kind of unconditional love she clearly did not receive growing up.
No, your trendy, overpriced SUV alarm farts all week long as you lie on your Porthault bed linens and pontificate on which pair of Elizabeth and James flats you plan on wearing to your 3 p.m. breakfast of champions. Do your bored, nosey, older than the sun, make-up shunning neighbor, a favor. Drive your belching, black behemoth over to Beverly Hills Range Rover and tell them that your car has too many empty opinions and no audience. Then ask them what a lease would be on a 2010 Silver model with grey interior and burp me an answer.