Playing Well With Others

It was an uneventful day. I did not win a Pulitzer Prize. I did not win a Nobel Prize, or even a Booby Prize. I was not chosen (again) for Miss America. It's getting old, this not being chosen. That ain't no way to treat a lady.

There is a thong on the floor of the lobby in my building. It has been there all day. Somebody was in a hurry. It is brown. A brown thong.

I didn't know that Sheryl Crow lived here.

If I got to choose my neighbors, some of them would not make the cut. Princess Leia would be plying her wares elsewhere, and a young man whom I usually refer to as "Dickboy" would be gone, too.

He has the charming habit of leaving his garbage outside the door of his apartment, sometimes for days at a time. I have concluded that he is waiting for the Garbage Fairy to come and take it away, perhaps leaving a few quarters under his doormat.

I parked in the driveway for less than a minute while I unloaded some heavy bags, leaving my motor running. Dickboy drove up in his giant SUV and leaned on his horn, even though he could see what I was doing and assume that I did not plan to leave my car there all night, blocking admittance to his obscenely large vehicle. Although somebody should.

I have lived here longer than he has, so if anyone has a right to be a territorial asshole, it would be me.

He rarely bothers to click the garage door shut, which upsets me because we keep our mountain bikes out there, attached to a pillar with a flimsy chain. Our helmets were already stolen once, so we now keep their replacements in the apartment.

He slammed into the garage after me, removing a section of the door frame he missed last time with his fender and strewing large splinters everywhere. Once I had gathered up the rest of my parcels, he had already entered the building.

A huge trash bag was blooming right in front of the door. The drawstring was not fully closed, so I peered inside at soda cans, beer bottles, empty potato chip bags, cigarette butts and other garbage which had clearly come from his car. (So comforting that he drinks beer while driving.)

Dickboy was too lazy to carry it upstairs and throw it down the garbage shute into the dumpster. I extracted a postcard with his name on it.

After hauling the heavy, leaking bag up four flights of stairs and placing it against his door, I propped the postcard on top so he would know that the Garbage Fairy didn't just make a wild guess as to whose trash it was.

I am not his frickin' mother. I already raised my children. They turned out fine. I do not care to raise him, too. I don't even like him.

I'm sure he was raised by rabid weasels. It's nearly Mother's Day. I hope he takes his mother some fresh roadkill on Sunday.

Today, I got an e-mail called a PajamaGram. "Mom Deserves To Be Pampered This Mother's Day," it proclaimed in big bold letters.

It advertised All Women's Pajamas Delivered With Free

*Keepsake hatbox
*Lavender sachet
*Do not disturb sign
*Gift card

Who thinks of this stuff anyway? Will they bring back housedresses next?

Apparently, lavender and old lace are alive and well. Does anybody under the age of 70 even know what a sachet is? And who uses hatboxes? I have never owned a hatbox in my life, but if I did, I would keep cat litter or crayons in it.

Women who use sachet and hatboxes most certainly have no use for "Do not disturb" signs.

A billboard offering some kind of freebies might be more useful. Maybe Tuesday Twofers. Or hummers.

Tomorrow may be the day I win a Pulitzer, Nobel or beauty crown. But in the meantime, I got to live another day, and it was good.