Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Separation anxiety rant one

I wanna know what the woman next door has against me. My husband told me a while ago that she's just an odd bird, a homebound mother of two with a shriveled personality that I ought not to spend a minute worrying about. And he was right; she's dull and dowdy and bears a disturbing resemblance to Andrea Yeats, so why do I care what she thinks? Still, we used to be friendly, and our house was the first stop for the girls on their trick-or-treat route. But the little golden haired heathens didn't show up this year. What the fuck?

Jerry told me it was probably because of the weather threatening rain, and that all the kids would have wanted to go down to those new Mc Mansions they built next to our addition. But I knew I'd been snubbed. For some reason, Andrea Yeats had nixed us, and I wanted to know why.

The next day, she and her offspring were all up in my yard, as usual after the bus came. I asked Andrea Yeats: "Did the girls not go trick-or-treating this year?" and she says, "Oh, yeah, we went down to the new houses, and kinda up that way a little," like I'm not going to notice that "up that way a little" is up our street and excluded my fucking house.

So what's the deal with Mrs. Yeats? Is it my liberal leaning bumper sticker, or the fact that I have neglected to mow the lawn? It might be a cumulative effect, but there's the one thing I think that has convinced her that she must keep her little preciouses away.

It's the recycling bin. See, since the hub and I are both in the wine biz, it's usually full of wine bottles. Full to the brim. She's been looking at all those bottles and has decided we're boozehounds. Plus, since the hub has moved out, I dumped all these liquors I didn't plan on drinking, so she's processing absent husband + 5 recycled tequila bottles = neighbor is a drunken slut. That's gotta be it. She's thinking, no wonder he left you, you Godless whore.

Oh, you might be thinking, now for fuck's sake, that's just silly to trip on something like that. But I'll be damned if she's gonna whip me at the speculation game. It's a pride thing.

Here's what I'm speculating, Andrea: you plod around in your house all day, which stinks of yappy puppy and kid sweat, in the same sweatpants for days. So don't be judging me and my wine bottles. Ain't nobody wanting to trade spaces with you.


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