Jul
27
July 27, 2007
Earlier today our next door neighbor stopped by, pounding at my front door for several minutes while I completely ignored her, assuming it was just the contractors working on the addition (they had been whacking various things with hammers all afternoon). When I finally came out to see what all the ruckus was, she told me she just wanted to let me know they were having a party on Saturday night. I immediately started brainstorming excuses as to why I would be unable to attend, such as a chronic case of housemaid’s knee in addition to inflammation of the blowhole, but as it turned out she only wanted to inform me of the event so I wouldn’t call the cops.
“There might be some noise until around 11 or so,” she said. “One year someone called the police, can you imagine?”
As a matter of fact, I could imagine, because she is the very same person who called the cops a few years ago to complain that Dog was barking, which she later explained as “paranoia” because she was alone in her house and thought maybe Dog was barking at an intruder. Which Dog would only do if said intruder was dressed in a squirrel costume, but I guess she didn’t know that.
“Boy,” I said. “That’s just crazy, you’d think a neighbor would call you before just calling the police over something like that.” My ham-handed attempt at a lecture utterly failed, though, because she agreed wholeheartedly, shaking her head in disbelief.
Other than Clueless McCopperton, we don’t really know any of our neighbors, which I think is a bummer. I mean, we’re on a friendly-wave basis with a few, but that’s about it. The surrounding blocks are a grab-bag, demographically speaking, and I haven’t seen a lot of people our age or people with little kids. It makes me wonder what things will be like when Riley’s a little older—I hope we unearth some playmates within walking distance. Some of my favorite memories of growing up in Virginia have to do with playing outside with nearby kids, even including that one time I plummeted out of my friend Stacy’s weeping willow tree smack onto a picnic table.
Both JB and I are kind of socially impaired, which makes it hard to meet new people. But my feeling is that people in this area aren’t as friendly as people in, say, a Fannie Flagg book—everyone seems happy to stick to their own yard, their own business. Which is how I feel 99% of the time myself. Except I’d like Riley to feel exactly as if he was living in a Fannie Flagg book, you know what I mean?
What about you, do you know know your neighbors?
Jul
26
July 26, 2007
After taking into consideration your helpful comments yesterday, I think I’ll be asking for a somewhat stacked, A-line-ish cut with a few more layers tonight. Not Posh, exactly, because that’s a haircut that has to be followed night and day by an on-staff stylist wielding a pair of scissors—believe me, I’ve had cuts similar to that in the past and the maintenance was insane—plus I have crazy pregnancy hair right now (it sort of freaks me out, actually, how my hair and fingernails are in this fast-forward growth mode; it somehow reminds me of those time lapse nature videos where the flower barrels out of the ground and explodes in a tawdry display of dripping pistil and stamen and ovule) and so a very stylish style isn’t going to work for very long, but in the Posh neighborhood, if you will. Ghetto Posh, without the money or the sour expression or the terrifying rock-hard boobs.
Speaking of celebrities, I saw Mean Girls last night (why? Because Tina Fey, that’s why) and I found it sort of excruciating to watch Lindsay Lohan, and not just because the movie included 5827 close-up shots of the freckle on her upper lip. There’s something so trainwrecky about watching footage of a celebrity before All the Really Bad Stuff started to happen, you want to shout through the screen and warn them to use a LIMO for the love of god—and to maybe rethink the boozy idea that playing with kitchen knives = sexy (christ, at least haul out some legitimate S&M accouterments, you know? Ball gag that Minillo chick)—and yet there’s nothing you can do.
(JB deserves props for watching that with me [although the plethora of miniskirts surely eased his burden], especially since I picked out our last movie: Jet Li’s The One. What can I say, I was really hoping for an ass-kicking 90 minutes of crazy special effects and nonstop action-fu, but it is in fact a terrible, terrible turdfest with the cheesiest wire work ever—they may as well have dangled Li from a fishing pool and swooped him clumsily around for an hour. Bah.)
This week has been kind of dragging for me, and every time I need what basically amounts to a hit of mental nitrous oxide, I watch this video. Oh man, I just watched it again. So, so funny. Bookmark that puppy, and hit me back: what’s the best thing you’ve seen on the internet lately?
-
My product review site:
[