Noisy neighbor. No one else makes the kind of noise he makes. He makes up for all the noise the rest of us don’t make. His gravelly, deep voice grates on me, especially when he’s bitching at his kids, or his wife, who truly never deserves it. I don’t think I’ve ever heard her raise her voice. She is calm and patient and steadfast and reasonable, even when Miles, the three-year- old, throws a twenty-minute tantrum, as he has been doing daily for the last couple weeks.
Chantal and Isabelle just left. We drank tea and and ate goat-cheese-and-roasted-red pepper tomales, then we made chocolate chip cookies, dipping them in mugs of milk. Chantal had a glass of pink wine.
Meanwhile Tony was out there churning away at something. When it got to the point where we could hardly hear each other, I stuck my head out the door to see what was up. He was cutting up a small dirt bike with an electric saw. God help me. I slammed my front door and then the front window to give him the message. I think he got it. All is quiet now.