June 23 Neighbors I

So I moved. I left the house in South City proper (like, the hood all gentrified and shit) and moved further south to a sleepy little neighborhood that never saw the urban decay and decline that my old place survived.

I live in an adorable little three bedroom gingerbread with original woodwork and appropriate updates and a bone dry basement with a TV room for the Xbox and friends who stay the night. It is smaller, sensible, with lots of closets (houses twenty-five years older had no closets, built in an era of chifferobes and wardrobes or I guess no clothes to hang?). It is clean, tidy, really, and just the cutest little place. Every day when I walk in from work it's like coming home to a vacation house.

I mean this. 100%. I love this house, and it's a two block bike ride to my son's friends and there's a damned snow cone stand a half block west. You cannot beat it.

Except the neighbors. Oh no. With the Jesus stickers on the truck and the indoor furniture on the porch and the windchimes. They never get old, you know.

The neighbors with the snide comments and the bizarre relatives and the granddaughter who dances in her kiddie pool like she's auditioning for a Lady Gaga show.

The neighbors with obsessive lawn care and smoking on the porch at all hours and hassling my friends and my kids' friends and me and my kids, frankly.

They have opinions on my oak tree. My garage. My dog. My other neighbors. My lawnmower. My piano.

I'm officially too tired and worn out by my year to put up a fight.