Tenement House

I came home from the pool today (see skank and band aid post) and tossed my wet suit and swim jacket over the porch railing and propped up my thong (the floor kind, not the bottom kind) to dry in the sun. My bathing cap, goggles, toiletry bag...all of it laid open on the porch for the world to see and the sun to dry. Andy, love of my life, and architect to the Berkeley elite, crossed my path on his way to make a cup of coffee. "This place always looks like a tenement when you do that," he commented dryly (yes, I know, an adverb, so shoot me). He further wondered what Bob and Janet next door would think. Personally, I don't think that they think. I think they are slouching toward dementia and a good day for them is when they recognize each other and Bob manages to urinate in the toilet IN the house. And not down the walk way separating our houses while singing an old navy tune from the top of his lungs. So, here's the rule:  if Bob can drink till he's pissing like a sailor outside my dining room window, I can hang up my size bazillion Speedo and air out my soap for a few hours. "nuf said.