Moufette and I are in hiding today.   Even my Entitled Alley Cat is seeking solace under my bed’s covers.  We have a new neighbor at Place de Plume.  A Hollywood type.  Don’t get me wrong; I venerate thespians of all varieties.   I thought he would be all too wonderful as a neighbor, moving in truckloads of belongings, running every morning with his shirt off, inviting over a bounty of like-bodied Hollywood friends.  I had Chef bake up some delicious profiteroles to take over by way of introduction.  Tucking Moufette under one arm and having my trusted maid, Clarice, bring up with rear with our basket of Welcome to Naomi, we made our way over and oh my, was he ever welcoming.

As I have mentioned in this space prior, I am not one to name names when dealing with the more delicate areas.  So you will be left to guess whom this young man might be, but all I can say is his enthusiasm is plays second fiddle only to his beautiful accent.  And when he is wearing clothes, they are divine.

What further convinced me that he would be my most favorite neighbor, was that he was only here for brief snatches of time.  He still had a home overseas so I didn’t have to worry about undo attachment.  We have a system in place, when the both of us are in residence: if my bedroom curtain is three quarters open, he is to stop by after his run.  I, of course, am allowed to swing by his place whenever the mood strikes me – such is the luxury of being, well, me.  He is so well behaved; he comes when called, leaves when told, and does exactly as instructed.

So why then, Mrs. de Plume, the damp cloth on your forehead, pitcher of martinis on the bedside and the darkened room?  The noise, darlings; the head-splitting, ear-defiling noise.  Now I adore a good party, but what is the point of having a large group of people over if no one can hear each other?  I am positively far too charming to be drowned out by colossal speakers blaring a cacophony of screeching and instrumental punishment.  And its not just the parties, it’s all the time.  His gramophone seems to have two settings – off and explosive.

But it is not just his music; he has devices – many, many devices.  In the odd moments that I need to catch my breath, he whips out one of his devices and sends messages to people, plays games, checks stuff, as he so eloquently puts it.  I understand he needs to keep in touch given his profession, but darling, my feet are not going to rub themselves.  And all of these devices make noise – things blasting in his silly games, more “music”, loud notifications when somebody has finally responded back to him – which they seem to do one word at a time.  And do not get me started on that machine he connects to his various televisions to play games with his friends when they come over.  I simply do not understand all the ways people have devised to completely ignore each other while in the same room.  The youth of today spends all of its time trying to reach out to people they never want to have to actually speak to; no wonder the art of conversation has fallen by the wayside.

Anyway, I have sent Opie home for the day and taken to my wonderfully silent bed.  Moufette is on his back whimpering on the pillow next to me and won’t remove his Pomeranian sized eye-mask for anything.  The Entitled Alley Cat only emerges to sniff the shirt my newest stallion has left behind and to sneer her disapproval.  I don’t know, it may not be worth it; it is just so convenient and I do love my sex convenient.

My point is, darlings, every decision must be made based on pro and cons.  Opie may bring a crash of noise with him, but he also brings a treasure-trove of new talent from which to select.  Pros and Cons, darlings, pros and cons.


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