December 9, 2009
Living alone has rather bizarre consequences if one happens to be situated in the Islamic Republic. One of these, I have discovered is a tendency for male residents of my apartment building to knock on my door in a grotesque parody of what the women in Desperate Housewives are wont to do. They knock, and if perchance they find me at home, they introduce themselves on rather flimsy excuses. The last specimen that darkened my doorstep wanted to know if my maid was reputable and whether he could have her number. He subsequently spent some time plaguing her for my number, thankfully the woman was smart enough to refuse. But coming back to the point, they knock and deliver some sort of random schpeil and after they're done, aping the homemade-apple-pie goodwill gesture a'la DH, they inevitably offer the services of their assorted servants (should I never need someone to run my errands for me) and assure me that while they're around I have nothing to worry about. Ironically, their reassurances make me begin to worry. And wonder, if living alone in the motherland was such a smart decision after all?