I don't like you or your banana bread
Three years ago, a bank miraculously decided to lend us enough money to buy a house. After several days of yelling “Suckers!” each time we drove by the lender’s offices, it was time to settle into our new home. There were boxes to unpack, furniture to acquire from large item trash day and layers of pink and pea green paint to apply.
One day, while peering through one of our drafty windows, I noticed something odd. There were other houses next to, and across from, our own. People came and went from these places, several times each day. I beckoned my wife to the drafty window. She looked, and in a word, explained it all…
“Neighbors.”
Neighbors. We had neighbors. People, living within hundreds of feet of our home. Doing what ever it is other people do. Where do they go all day? Who do they know? Why do we suddenly care so much? We stood in the drafty window for an hour. Watching. Wondering.
On June 12th, 2002, at 11:45am, we had first contact. I was casually “day-drinking” on the front porch when a “Hello” came from the driveway below. A male and female looked up at me. The female held a large tinfoil block. The male stood with a goofy grin and ears not unlike a Mad Magazine cover. Beside them, two circus midgets squirmed with their fingers up their noses. I was later told that these were children and not carnival freaks, a claim that I dispute to this day. “We’re the Blahblahs, from across the street”, the male stranger said. (Obviously, their name isn’t the Blahblahs. I just figured I’d play it safe on the off chance they’ve discovered the Internet). “I baked you a banana bread”, the female said. Before I could offer my no thanks, one of the midgets asked, “Can I pet yowr dawg?” “Uh sure...” I said. The carny then reached through the deck railing and deposited his nose candy all over my huskie’s head. I felt uncomfortable and a bit violated. I wasn’t ready for this much awkward conversation. I needed them away. “I’d love to have you in but I work at home,” I said, holding up my half-enpty bottle of High Life, “and I’m right in the middle of a project.” They all gave me a blank stare and the male said, “Okay… uh, well, welcome to the neighborhood.” And with that, the neighbors departed, wandering back to their home, possibly offended, hopefully a little scared.
There would be other neighborly visits, but none seemed as intriguing as the Blahblahs. The personal contact was quite unnerving — and two days of banana bread-induced diarrhea felt a tad insulting — but watching their follies through the drafty windows has become a daily obsession.
As it turns out, Mr. Blahblah is a part-time minister and religious youth camp director. On Mondays, the youth gather on the Blahblah’s front lawn and act out scenes from the bible. There’s something disturbing about teenagers in warm-up pants and crooked ball caps changing water into wine. Sometimes, to provoke a reaction, I’ll display our novelty leg lamp, a la A Christmas Story, in the front window. It’s always interesting to see how fast the wholesome scatter at the sight of electric sex.
One can’t-miss event is always the mowing of the lawn. These people are probably no older than 30, but the guy still gets teens in his youth group to do his yard work. He actually did mow once himself, but he took off his shirt to reveal King Kong-esque back hair and a stomach that looked like he swallowed a small pet, so I suppose I’m grateful for his laziness in this regard. The Minister Blahblah really seems to have a big streak of sloth running through him. Many winter mornings, I watch as he stands with a cup of coffee, in his pajamas, not helping his wife scrape off the car, shovel the walk or get the two midgets in the car for carny school.
The most disturbing snub to chivalry came when his, (or her) parents were visiting one winter weekend. We had gotten around 18 inches of heavy wet snow on Friday night. Saturday morning, I looked across the street to find, to my horror, THE PARENTS SHOVELING THE DRIVEWAY. Blahblah stood by the door, roadrunner coffee mug in hand and a goofy grin on his face. It’s bad luck just to see something like that. One time, the gentleman next-door kindly snow blowed Blahblah’s driveway. I went over and inquired as to why he would contribute to the Minister’s laziness. He said he does it for the two children. “If anything ever happened and the kids needed to go to the hospital, they’d never get out of the driveway.” I quickly rebutted, “But they’re not children, I think they’re circus midgets…They’re heads are gigantic.” He let out a nervous chuckle and has since kept a healthy distance from me, and my house.
To round out the neighborly nuttiness, there’s this one other little instance of nonsensical weirdness: One day, Mr. Blahblah, dressed in a skidoo suit and a fleece jester hat that reached the small of his back, was attempting to shovel the drive. (Surprising, given his past behavior.) After three scoops of snow, he dropped the shovel and just stopped. He went over to his 1992 Saturn and opened the trunk, turned and looked up at the sky and with a whimsical grin on his face, wandered down to the end of the street…and into the woods. All I could figure was, the mothership had finally found him. It was time to go.
Mr. Blahblah did finally return three hours later. However, he didn’t close the trunk and left his shovel in the road. Two days later, his wife closed the trunk and roped the gentleman next door into jumping the drained battery.
And so it goes with the Blahblahs, until they decide to sell the house and hit the carnival circuit with the midgets.
One day, while peering through one of our drafty windows, I noticed something odd. There were other houses next to, and across from, our own. People came and went from these places, several times each day. I beckoned my wife to the drafty window. She looked, and in a word, explained it all…
“Neighbors.”
Neighbors. We had neighbors. People, living within hundreds of feet of our home. Doing what ever it is other people do. Where do they go all day? Who do they know? Why do we suddenly care so much? We stood in the drafty window for an hour. Watching. Wondering.
On June 12th, 2002, at 11:45am, we had first contact. I was casually “day-drinking” on the front porch when a “Hello” came from the driveway below. A male and female looked up at me. The female held a large tinfoil block. The male stood with a goofy grin and ears not unlike a Mad Magazine cover. Beside them, two circus midgets squirmed with their fingers up their noses. I was later told that these were children and not carnival freaks, a claim that I dispute to this day. “We’re the Blahblahs, from across the street”, the male stranger said. (Obviously, their name isn’t the Blahblahs. I just figured I’d play it safe on the off chance they’ve discovered the Internet). “I baked you a banana bread”, the female said. Before I could offer my no thanks, one of the midgets asked, “Can I pet yowr dawg?” “Uh sure...” I said. The carny then reached through the deck railing and deposited his nose candy all over my huskie’s head. I felt uncomfortable and a bit violated. I wasn’t ready for this much awkward conversation. I needed them away. “I’d love to have you in but I work at home,” I said, holding up my half-enpty bottle of High Life, “and I’m right in the middle of a project.” They all gave me a blank stare and the male said, “Okay… uh, well, welcome to the neighborhood.” And with that, the neighbors departed, wandering back to their home, possibly offended, hopefully a little scared.
There would be other neighborly visits, but none seemed as intriguing as the Blahblahs. The personal contact was quite unnerving — and two days of banana bread-induced diarrhea felt a tad insulting — but watching their follies through the drafty windows has become a daily obsession.
As it turns out, Mr. Blahblah is a part-time minister and religious youth camp director. On Mondays, the youth gather on the Blahblah’s front lawn and act out scenes from the bible. There’s something disturbing about teenagers in warm-up pants and crooked ball caps changing water into wine. Sometimes, to provoke a reaction, I’ll display our novelty leg lamp, a la A Christmas Story, in the front window. It’s always interesting to see how fast the wholesome scatter at the sight of electric sex.
One can’t-miss event is always the mowing of the lawn. These people are probably no older than 30, but the guy still gets teens in his youth group to do his yard work. He actually did mow once himself, but he took off his shirt to reveal King Kong-esque back hair and a stomach that looked like he swallowed a small pet, so I suppose I’m grateful for his laziness in this regard. The Minister Blahblah really seems to have a big streak of sloth running through him. Many winter mornings, I watch as he stands with a cup of coffee, in his pajamas, not helping his wife scrape off the car, shovel the walk or get the two midgets in the car for carny school.
The most disturbing snub to chivalry came when his, (or her) parents were visiting one winter weekend. We had gotten around 18 inches of heavy wet snow on Friday night. Saturday morning, I looked across the street to find, to my horror, THE PARENTS SHOVELING THE DRIVEWAY. Blahblah stood by the door, roadrunner coffee mug in hand and a goofy grin on his face. It’s bad luck just to see something like that. One time, the gentleman next-door kindly snow blowed Blahblah’s driveway. I went over and inquired as to why he would contribute to the Minister’s laziness. He said he does it for the two children. “If anything ever happened and the kids needed to go to the hospital, they’d never get out of the driveway.” I quickly rebutted, “But they’re not children, I think they’re circus midgets…They’re heads are gigantic.” He let out a nervous chuckle and has since kept a healthy distance from me, and my house.
To round out the neighborly nuttiness, there’s this one other little instance of nonsensical weirdness: One day, Mr. Blahblah, dressed in a skidoo suit and a fleece jester hat that reached the small of his back, was attempting to shovel the drive. (Surprising, given his past behavior.) After three scoops of snow, he dropped the shovel and just stopped. He went over to his 1992 Saturn and opened the trunk, turned and looked up at the sky and with a whimsical grin on his face, wandered down to the end of the street…and into the woods. All I could figure was, the mothership had finally found him. It was time to go.
Mr. Blahblah did finally return three hours later. However, he didn’t close the trunk and left his shovel in the road. Two days later, his wife closed the trunk and roped the gentleman next door into jumping the drained battery.
And so it goes with the Blahblahs, until they decide to sell the house and hit the carnival circuit with the midgets.