Life in the Slow Lane

This is the post I almost didn't write. And before I can actually write it, let me put in a few disclaimers: This is the life I know. This is not intended as a statement about the lives of others or of how lives should be or even of how my life will be tomorrow. This is right now, in my little house. I sit long-ways on our rocking couch, the laptop topping my lap, my legs resting on the pile of yet-to-be-answered letters I dreamed would be considerably smaller by now, my feet hanging off the armrest on one side and my shoulders hanging over the other side. The toy box is tipped on its side spilling out a conglomeration of toys, baby books, wooden spoons and other miscellaneous kitchen items that worked particularly well as distractions at some point during the last few days. There is a basket of laundry that includes a load of clean, dry towels and clean, wet diapers. The sink is full of dirty dishes, the drying rack is full of clean dishes, and the table is full of everything tha...

Sound proof housing we do not have. I know one set of neighbors uses a shower curtain rather than a shower door because I can hear the rings slide back and forth before they turn on the water. With another neighbor, I know when the dog runs to the door because I can hear the tiny toe nails on the floor. Vacuuming, flushing, burping, swearing, fighting, closing cupboard doors, running the garbage disposal, plus. Do I even want to know what sounds carry from our side of the wall? Our corner of the complex doesn't put a great deal of emphasis on neighbor to neighbor bonding, perhaps because more than one neighbor has been introduced or recognized as the one who makes such-n-such noise. This is never complimentary. There is just something slightly awkward about getting to know a person after you have already determined their middle of the night bathroom routine. Or their vacuuming obsession. Or their lady-killer ways. Or their loose grasp of reality. Like I said, I don't really wa...