This is an old rant I found in a file, but it’s still relevant.
Yesterday I had a very rude shock as I realized that I’d been conducting the worst sort of passive aggressive test on my neighbors. Now, since it’s been weeks since I’ve done laundry, I offer myself a little bit of forgiveness, because the truth is that I really forgot to bring my laundry detergent up from the basement. So it sat on the table down there for about a month. As I looked at the empty shelf in my hall closest, where the laundry detergent usually sits, all I could hope was that there was enough detergent left in the bottle to do the two loads that I so desperately needed to do. Happily there was enough for two loads left. The problem was that there was only enough for two loads left. A month ago, there’d been a nearly full bottle.
I found myself shaking my head in righteous regret and composing pithy notes that I could post on the wall, reading something like “Dear neighbors, well, you should know that you all have failed the good citizen test that I have been conducting these past weeks.” The problem is that it was no test; it was just me being moronic and leaving my laundry detergent on the table, where I guess it’s fair game. But the problem with this is that it’s not fair game. I would never use detergent other than my own, except that one time when I had spilled guacamole on my waitress shirt. And I felt so guilty I deliberately left that most precious of commodities, a quarter, near the bottle.
Why then, did someone, or several people, decide it was ok to use the detergent just because it was there? And why shouldn’t they? Aren’t I supposed to be all about sharing and decency? But what does it say about these people (who I never see, by the way, despite the fact that I am always going and coming from this place) that they’d make the assumption that since no one had claimed the detergent, they could use it? Did it mean that they didn’t use their detergent, instead saving a few pennies and making it last longer? Or did my stupidity save someone’s life when they realized that they didn’t have enough detergent to wash their uniform?
I guess I would have preferred to walk downstairs and discover that my detergent hadn’t been touched. It would have been a nice restorative boost to that elusive concept known as “the good of humanity.” That’s been a tough sell to me lately. Yes, you say, but you did it. You did what you’re judging others for doing. I did. But I regretted it, and I won’t do it again. And sometimes its nice to see others being better than you are. It makes you try harder.
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Hmm. A quick google search reveals that there are dozens of recipes for steamed duck. I have to admit that sounds a little disgusting (even when paired with sake), but then again, I don’t like duck, period.
However, lest you think my first blog post is about something as mundane as poultry, allow me to explain. Strolling into my apartment at about 10pm last evening, I glanced toward the pond, as I usually do. I never quite realized it until just now, but it’s a habit I’ve developed ever since a white duck took up residence there. Some kid probably got him for Easter and dumped him into the pond. I figured the duck would be around for a month or two and then depart for greener..er..water sources. But he’s still there.
I don’t actually know if he’s a he, but in my head he is definitely male; his name is TAD, which stands for The Aflac Duck. He’s made it through two winters. His white feathers are a little dingy from the equally dingy water he calls home. And his quacking never fails to make me laugh, especially when it’s perfectly timed to when I round the corner and come into his plane of vision.
Lately, he’s been hoarse. I never knew a duck could be hoarse, but I’m sure there’s a Disney cartoon somewhere that does it justice. Last night I realized the problem. Like so many of us, he’s suffering from the change of the seasons. As I walked down the path, idly glancing over to see what TAD was up to, I noticed the pond was steaming, due no doubt to the rapid drop of the temperature from the previously warm climes we’ve been enjoying. And TAD was cruising through the steam in grand ocean-liner fashion, regal, proud, haughty. Until he opened his beak and gave me a “welcome home” shout-out. It was a raspy, sickly sound that shouldn’t have made me laugh, but did. I sure hope he didn’t hear me laughing at him. I wouldn’t want to hurt his feelings.