Corrigan, Sophia T and I were toiling in the soil on the sunshiny Sunday. Frequently the promoter of using mulch (since I am the weeder otherwise) I eyed the lawn of the neighboring apartment building. A shave was due and the nitrogen rich grass clippings would make our veggies happy.
When the short frenchman walked his dog back to the apartment gate, I called out, "Hello! What do you guys do with your lawn clippings?"
"What do I look like?" he snarled. "The janiteur?"
"Um, no, I just thought maybe, well I thought you looked informed about landscaping..."
He didn't even hold my gaze during my reply, just marched on.
Admittedly I had made a mistake, for I really thought he was the caretaker of the property. But his answer smelled worse than fancy cheese, and I wished I could retort to his needless rudeness in witty and fluent french.
All I could think of was "couers d'merde" which I hoped meant "heart of shit" but presumably a made-up insult would accomplish neither witty vengeance nor linguistic competence, and certainly not a useful reply like, "The landscaper mows on Saturdays, you might ask him."
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tales from life in a co-op
under our roof
a glassblowing alternajournalist, a musical storytelling anarcho-baptist, a capoeira-playing engineer, a renaissance physicist, a scrabble champion math teacher, a neurobiologist philosopher, a filmmaker documenting the deadliest man alive, an international flutist biologist, a journalist animator baker, a hiking biking banjo-strumming math teacher, a singing bilingual editing, a backgammon playing sex therapist, a novel-writing psych nurse guitarthlete, a pensive epistilary collage artist & two cats.