3/10/19: hello, gorgeous

So I have this LLC and apparently this is a thing some people take seriously and I’m having a hard time getting my head around that. I had to go to the bank to set up my business accounts and the business banker lady was very nice and we got on famously, but then we got to the part where I had to (for reasons I forget) give myself a title. The business banker lady was like, “You can call yourself president or CEO or whatever,” and kind of hand-waved at me, but I paused, because on the form I filed with the NYS Department of Taxation and Finance I listed my role as Head Honcho and I really didn’t want to demote myself from that quite yet. Apparently, however, that is not the done thing, and so the business banker lady and I had a little back and forth where she leaned on me to be president and I politely but firmly held my ground on Head Honcho—“It’s my company, right? So can’t I do whatever I want?”—and finally she capitulated and decided the back office would just have to figure out how to deal with it.

I am pretty sure there is nothing that prevents a person from getting whatever title the Head Honcho wants them to have, and since I am the Head Honcho, I’m pleased to announce the appointment of me to the role of Head Honcho. D., my personal banker, stopped by to say hello while I was in the business banker lady’s office and he loyally supported my position which I think made the business banker lady feel a little better and you know what? If the back office has an issue with me, the Head Honcho, being the Head Honcho, I’ve got two people willing to defend my right to be a lunatic and if that ain’t America I don’t know what is.

My schedule these days varies quite a bit, but overall I am for sure spending more time in my building. I really love my building and the guys who make it such a lovely place to live (and while I am advocate for “guys” as a unisex term, in this case, they are all dudes). There are 384 apartments here (yes, Unc, you read that correctly—and mine is not even a particularly big building) and the inhabitants run the gamut from young people to the very old. The older crowd seems to have some loose affiliations as I often see them chatting in the lobby and occasionally someone gets on the elevator going from one floor to another instead of all the way to the lobby. Even ExtraIntrovert I am friendly with a few people—some people from my floor, a lady with a very handsome dog, etc.—and I recognize enough others that surely some of them know my face, but then the other day something truly horrible happened and I’m still not over it.

It was maybe two in the afternoon and I was feeling a little tired. Because I’m Living My Best Life, I decided to pop into the coffee shop next door for a pick-me-up. This coffee shop is so close that, despite the Polar Vortex etc., I didn’t bother to put on a coat. As I was walking through the lobby of the building, a man I did not recognize passed me going the other direction and, as he went by, called out to me, “No mail yet!”

No. Mail. Yet.

Is this an official stage of aging, where you become a person who gives a shit as to whether or not the mail has arrived? Am I on this guy’s radar as someone else who’s popping down to the lobby three times a day to check for the mail? Maybe I’m overreacting and it’s nbd to be a Mail Here Yet? person, but wow I did not see that one coming. No mail yet, neighbor! Go sort your pills for a little while and then check again! (No disrespect to pill-sorting, which I do plenty of, but my GOODNESS.)

One of the reasons I really like my building is the noise situation. While the street sounds are inevitable, and there is many a night when I sleep with ear plugs, I *never* hear a neighbor. This is a BIG deal, as anyone who has suffered thundering footsteps or raised voices or loud music or crying children can confirm. In my last apartment I could actually hear the couple below me yelling at their kids—not just the noise of their voices, but the actual words. I went about on tip-toe and wore headphones when I needed to get the Mahler REALLY going and often wondered if Neighbors X were ever going to enforce a Time Out all the way to the end. (To my knowledge, they never did—“That’s it, you’re done, get in here and finish your dinner”—and I would still be showing three minutes left on the penalty clock, but I guess that shows what two solid minutes of wailing can do to a parent’s resolve.)

The one weak spot in the noise situation, apart from the street noise, is by the front door. Some residents have put weather striping or whatever around their door frames, but some of us have been too lazy to do so and I’ve noticed that, as I pass apartment doors on the way to mine, I can sometimes hear snatches of conversation or music. Of course I pretend to myself I’m trying not to listen, but then again I’ve not (yet) heard anything interesting so I don’t bother to pretend too hard. It’s pretty clear that inside-apartment noises are only really audible when they are made at or close to the front door, which in my case happens to be just inches away from the entrance to my little kitchen. I’ve been on a dishtowel TEAR recently, and my most recent dishtowel is, if I may say so, quite the delight. I had it blocking in the kitchen, and cotton takes ages to fully dry, so for about 36 hours, every time I walked in to my kitchen, I let out a heartfelt, “Hello, GORGEOUS!” or a sincere “Wow, you are BEAUTIFUL.” I only hope that one of my neighbors happened to be walking by in time to overhear, and maybe, just for a second, thought I was talking to them. Hello, gorgeous! Is the mail here yet?

PS I went to visit my old man and it was business as usual: we went to the sawmill, I did yard work (under strict supervision), and we spent several lovely, lovely evenings with a glass of wine by the fire pit, before we would gear up and settle down to our nightly Quiddler competition and once—ONCE!—I actually beat him. He took defeat like the reigning champion he is, which is to say gracefully, but when I suggested we pose with him on the ground and me standing triumphantly, holding him up by the hair, he demurred, and I can’t say I blame him. Later we went to the village square and the band had brought a wind machine for the one dude with hair and if this doesn’t make you believe that it’s never too late to be living your dream, then perhaps it’s time to go see if the mail’s here yet. I’ll be here working on KILLING IT with my dishtowels.

And look! It folds up so beautifully!

Meanwhile, this dude is also living his best life.

I got this AWESOME book, which is WAY too hard for me, but at least I found an 8-year-old who also wanted to play Cat's Cradle for two hours straight.