The Burbs

I've always been fascinated by the concept of a neighborhood in the suburbs.  Growing up, I lived in a log cabin surrounded by 6 acres of densely wooded land and our only neighbors hated our guts.  It was a real Hatfield and McCoy type hatred, so I guess I've always longed to live on a densely populated street where if one neighbor didn't like you, maybe another one would.

About 5 years ago, I got my wish.  My husband and I bought a cute little house, on a cute little street, in a cute little neighborhood.  However, I realize I'm starting to become the gossipy suburbanite, the likes of which I've seen on television.

Our street is like most, you've got the neighbors you chat with, the neighbors you wave to, and then there are the neighbors you're just not sure about.

Take for instance the people who live in the house I affectionately call "the crack den."  Its not your run-of-the-mill drug lair, in fact its cleverly disguised as a tiny cape with an expertly manicured lawn, but I still sense something is awry.  At night, there are always cars that pull up to the curb.   Someone comes out of the house, hands them something and then the car drives away.  Suspicious?  Perhaps, or maybe their friends don't really like to stay for long periods of time.  However, today as I ran past their house, there was a television set sitting by the curb that was covered in a suspicious white powder, and I don't think it was Anthrax.

Then there is the creepy old guy that lives just a few doors down from us.  I call him "the pedophile."  He has a penchant for sitting in his front lawn in a folding chair, with his shirt off, and waving to everyone who walks past.  He also likes to walk up and down the street talking to himself, but a few days ago he got even creepier.  I was walking down the sidewalk with a glass in my hand, it was a cool down walk after my workout and I was hydrating with some water.  Creepy guy pulled out of his driveway in his blue Buick and proceeded to lurk behind me as I walked along.

After a few minutes, he pulled up beside me rolled down his window and asked "what are you drinking?"

"Just water," I said.
"No thanks," he said and drove away, only to turn around at the end of the block and drive past me again, leering at me the entire time.  Uggghhhh.

We also have a lot of Bobs in our neighborhood.  We have Bob the retired cop who calls the police on everyone who parks too close to his driveway.  We have silent Bob across the street, who has never uttered a word to anyone and everyone assumes his Polynesian wife was a mail-order bride and then there is Drunk Bob.

He's the guy who is always sauntering out of his house on a hot summer day, when everyone else is tending to their lawns, and yelling "get a real job."  He'll chuckle about that a few seconds before he gets into his car to drive to the liquor store for more booze.  Fending off Drunk Bob is pretty easy, don't make eye contact and always make it seem like there is some place you urgently have to be if he corners you.

There's the old lady that lives two doors down that survived a fire that gutted her house, a heart attack and the death of her husband.  She keeps the television at such a loud volume, you can hear the questions that Alex Trebeck is asking contestants on Jeopardy from your front yard.

And then there is the kid who drives the ice cream truck.  Every night that terrible tune echoes through our neighborhood and you know the ice cream truck is on its way.  I don't think I have ever seen a single child run up to the truck.  Maybe that is why kid at the wheel looks like he would rather stab himself in the eye with the pointy end of a snow cone than drive that truck another mile.

So these are the people in my neighborhood. I guess its all just part of life in the burbs.  Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.