I must admit that my dedication is waning. If you haven’t noticed, daily meditations are not quite so daily anymore. Fuck, it’s nearly Christmas and even though I am not a Christian, I am happy to join into the over indulgence and general lack of work motivation that exists in the days leading up to the holiday.
I’ll keep it short. Across the street from us, a house appeared one night. Now you might think that is rather odd, but where I live, not so much. I went out for dinner with a friend at 7pm. There was no house. I came home just after 10pm. There was a house.
Here is a quick back story for those who are interested. Apparently the guy who owns the piece of land had a lovely family – wife and kids. Being a douchebag, he shacked up with another woman and abandoned his wife and kids. He douchebaggily forgot, while his penis was accidentally falling into a woman’s vagina that did not belong to his wife, that his father lived on a piece of land owned by…you didn’t guess it, did you? His wife!
His wife, tired of douchebaggery, kicked man with uncontrollable penis to the curb and evicted father of douchebag. Father of douchebag, for the sake of future reference, fixes washing machines. Because douchebag son owned land, he had to let his father move to that land. Where we live, people often take their whole house with them when they move.
Apparently – and you have to keep in mind I live in a small town where the truth is never considered a necessary component of any good story – father of douchebag asked permission from the local council to move his house and was denied permission. So, because ingenuity is the product of necessity, house was moved in the dark. You know, you can’t see houses being moved at night. Even though there are streetlights. Oh well, never mind.
The thing is that father of douchebag seems a cordial gentleman. Aside from the fact that he may actually become an episode of the hoarders, he’s a pleasant neighbour. And here it comes. His wife washes their clothes, sheets and everything else that requires washing, by hand, in a plastic bucket. He has about a dozen washing machines in his garden. Is this a case of genetic douchebaggery, my privilege not recognising that perhaps they can’t afford to run a washing machine, she has a distrust of washing machines and thinks she can do it better by hand, or something else? I’m still pondering.
So, today I am ungrateful for having this quandary forced upon me every time I walk through my gate. How can someone be surrounded by washing machines and yet need to do their laundry by hand? This morning I encountered a person wealthy enough to travel to the Caribbean for the winter proudly proclaiming how she does her family’s washing in a bucket while they are on holiday, to fill her time. Maybe I should tell father of douchebag to send his laundry to her too. She clearly has far too fucking much time on her hands.