One week of the Modern Lady’s Handbook and ZERO followers. ZERO. Nada.
I should feel ashamed.
Except that the Modern Lady’s handbook is supposed to be one of the first things I write — and a most terrible one — logically.
I was reading the other day that when you start to write, you suck at it for a long time, before actually writing one little thing that is more or less decent. Let’s just admit that the Modern Lady’s belongs to my dreadful beginning, so I forgive myself.
Now, to the topic of the day. John D. is the name of my next-door neighbor. He starts his day with a Pink Floyd album (every day choosing a different one), and a homemade latte (that I can smell from my open window). He occasionally leaves the house to buy a croissant in the shop next door.
He is French. And I don’t believe his name is John (I think he introduces himself with an Anglo-Saxon name to avoid the displeasure of hearing our dumbasses speak his French thing wrong, which by the way is extraordinarily vain and self-centric of him, for who could hope to avoid the inconveniences such as an improper pronunciation of the first name in life).
John and I met when he complained to the building manager about my cat. He said Octavius makes noises all day long, and he suspects I am mistreating the cat. Now, if this was Florida, I am pretty sure Mr. Baker (the manager) would have told him to leave his office, but because this is the beautiful community-oriented-pet-friendly California, Mr. Baker called some ladies he knows that rescue street felines.
Fast forward to Saturday, and Ms. Olivia knocks in my door. She seems dangerously under-aged, and she demands entry in my small studio to check on the violence to endangered pet. I tell her that is private property, and she needs a warrant to force-entry, and she threatens to report me to the Immigration Police (damn — I thought this was California, not Florida). That is when John D. suspiciously shows up to back her up, and that is when I learn of the absurd story.
Now, I am a strong woman, but also I am a peaceful one. Eventually, I let them in, and the cat amuses them with friendly licks and pleasant behavior. We all create a WhatsApp group to stay in touch and move on.
I wonder where men like John D. come from. He is a single Software Engineer that was born and educated in France and yet decides to lock himself in an over-priced cubicle just for the kicks of working in Silicon Valley. I hit on him already, but he wasn’t interested. He watches a lot of news channels, though — all French ones.
Sticking to my empowered persona, after a mild-rejection, John D. is dead to me — but for his lattes & Pink Floyd that I am forced to deal with. We meet in the elevator occasionally, and he barely smiles.
I always smile back. Yes, because that is the only way to keep up the persona thing.
