Business

I'm sure I was in kindergarten, walking home. I stood waiting at the corner, as two older girls talked. I told them what I thought. There was a pause, a glare from them, and the bigger one said. "No one. Was Talking. To you."

Hot anger and shame hit me, silenced me. And shocked me out of my baby-egotism. Resentfully, I still felt I had done nothing wrong. That short, sharp shock nevertheless impressed on me that my view of the matter didn't matter.

I thought about the guy from the barber shop, a decade ago, who approached me when he recognized me in the grocery store the next day, and demanded to know why I had my hair shaved like a boy. Apparently, he never had a second grader look down her nose at him and tell him to mind his own business.

Today, I know how to withhold my opinion in public. As I can ignore an intrusive question. I still think about it. I hear stupid and wrong statements in the lounge, and I want to correct them, but I don't. I come here, often writing in response. Anyone here comes voluntarily, can read or not read, leave or stay.

I feel a little posh about getting a place with so many amenities, even if it is small. Then I think of the woman at work who complains about decorating her new-built 3000 sq ft house, and the difficulty of getting to the country club, in a loud and constant chatter during her lunch. I tend to avoid her, lest I say something snide. My opinion of her is none of her business.

D spoke with our ISP to-be today, a local company we have had email from for fifteen years, the owner used to post on a BBS run by D's friend before there was an internet. The tech asked D if he was from Boston, because of the way he said apartment. No, he'd only been there three years, but so often imitated the accent, it stuck to him. (Ah PAHT m'nt). So much better to have local support, not Crapcast's helpline that gets us to Indian call centers, where I can't understand every third word. We are going cable tv free for a while, maybe to read more, write more, walk more certainly.

Moby knows, it's that time of year when we change where we live. This is all he had known living with us.