It's probably bad of me, but I've always used the lawn of the house across the street to gauge when it's time to mow my own lawn. That house belongs to a retired woman who's allergic to grass. She only mows when absolutely necessary, so she doesn't lose her cat in the weeds! So if she's mowed, I know it's high time to snap to it and do the same.
Not that our lawns are really made of grass. They are more a combination of crabgrass and any stray seeds/spoors that have blown here from parts unknown, volunteering to grow just enough to keep the dirt from showing through. Still, we are diligent, my neighbors and me, maintaining a sort of meadow status quo.
Meanwhile, Neighbor Bob's wife is visiting relatives in San Jose. While she's gone, he's tearing out the master bath and installing a new shower. N.Bill is helping. I doubt if he was even asked; he just lives for other people's home improvement projects. Power tools, stuff that's difficult to install, and ESPN blaring from a TV that nobody's watching.
N.Bill made BB and me walk over to see the progress, because in his opinion, our bathrooms both need this work ASAP. Bill and Bob keep a carefully itemized list in their heads, of what it would cost to redo our bathrooms. I bet for the price of a steak dinner with all the trimmings, they even would do a lot of the labor for us.
But not today, guys. N.Bill looked shocked to see us pile into the car with our backpacks and swimsuits. "You're leaving?!" As if he had fully expected us to get so inspired, we'd run home and turn on ESPN and start ripping out our own flooring and shower stalls.
I said, "You know how sometimes a kid wants to help out, but he's really underfoot, so you tell him, 'go help your mother'? Well, think of the three of us as the kid, and the Family Fitness Center as Mother."
::toot toot:: Buh-bye!
Ha! I love your neighborhood. Somehow it has made me feel all warm to read about it. Oh wait, I'm on fire. NO really, my last neighborhood, no one would talk to me, ever, even when my neighbor was putting a new roof on his shed and he was standing in my backyard while I worked in the garage. He waved "hi" but that was it.
Posted by: Jo | June 26, 2005 at 07:34 AM
Neighbor Bill? Neighbor Bob? What the hell kind of Spielberg-manque suburban parody are you living in? You're ARTISTS for Eris's sake. You need to be living in a ultra-fast paced urban trip-hop pre-gentrification, post-crack cutting-edge loft-oriented No Starbucks Allowed multi-everything kind of place, where you have Neighbor Jah (the Rasta poet and part-time hospital employee) and Neighbor Ayyaya (who's a Amazon Rain Forest Shaman recently relocated because the schools are better).
If you don't take advice I guarantee the following: Dockers and trips to Home Depot. Don't let it happen, please!
Posted by: Anthony | June 28, 2005 at 05:22 AM
No, in point of fact, I was an artist for about five days in San Francisco. But it didn't take. Suburbia is in my blood. Bring on the payless sandals and the electric doggie doors!
Posted by: pam | June 28, 2005 at 06:20 AM
The parking's better in suburbia.
Posted by: Jo | June 28, 2005 at 08:07 AM
No, sorry: YOU ARE STILL AN ARTIST NO MATTER WHAT KIND OF EGYPTIAN RIVER STATE OF MIND YOU PRETEND TO!!
Suburbia will poison you. 99% of all viola players, Republicans and people who think Survivor is authentic reality TV come from suburbia. Need I say more? I know for a fact BB is not suburban cause we've listened to Diamanda Galas CDs together.
Calling all Pam-A-Rama Maniacs: it's intervention time. Someone needs to show her she is not alone and that a stimulating war zone neighborhood is right around the corner!
Vegan cookies and third-World themed refreshments will be provided!!
Posted by: Anthony | June 28, 2005 at 12:07 PM