So, I’m living here with Max in the frozen middle. And he has this really sweet apartment, with my own bathroom, people. And a giant couch. And a deck. And an indoor swimming pool. I can’t really complain about any of that.
But, of course, I can complain about something.
The building we live in is basically a retirement building and mostly senior citizens live here.
So it’s just us and the mothballs. And they aren’t very nice.
They all stare at us with suspicion ALL THE TIME. I guess they don’t trust anybody under 80.
You have to fend them off just to use the damn laundry room. They act like they own it. Even though we have every much right to use it.
But, I’m afraid to use it, for chrissake, because I’m worried I might make eye contact with one of them, and then they will steal the rest of my remaining youth with their creepy senior citizen powers.
And the laundry room is where the real trouble with them began.
One evening Max was doing his laundry with a few of the mothballs.
And then, one of the washers was over-loaded and flooded the room. The apparent self-appointed leader of the mothballs accused Max of doing it, even though he was innocent. Max explained that he didn’t do it. But they wouldn’t believe it and then, as he was leaving, he overheard her call him “that lame boy” (he has a bum leg) and the others talked about how stupid he was.
What rudeness! Max’s feelings were so hurt. I mean, Max is the kindest, most polite person I know. He puts up with me for heaven’s sake! He obviously has the patience of a saint to put up with my bullshit.
But they are driving him to the edge.
And you should see this woman. Her expression is a permanent angry frown. I’ve seen her several times and it would seem it is frozen into this most unpleasant expression. So, I’ve named her Miss Frowny Face. Max has some other choice names for her, but, I’m not comfortable using that language.
The best part of this story? Miss Frowny Face is head of the welcoming committee.
You better start welcoming me, Miss Frowny Face or IT IS ON.
