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Funny what a 70 degree day and some yard work will do for neighborly relations. Yesterday, we were tearing out a rock garden (I use the term loosely) on the side of our house, and realized we had way more boulders than we could ever use. Since it seemed like all my neighbors were also out in the yard, Michael went to ask if anybody wanted some free rock. The Christians across the street said yes and came on over to inspect our pile. “The Christians” as we’ve called them – since we suspect they host a home-church and have gotten a few of their friends to move into the neighborhood too (something my friend Kate has told me is called “reneighboring communities”) – are nice, it turns out. (you never know – what looks like a home church could be a kool-aid-sipping-cult, we reasoned) They are named Brian and Naomi, and they have a daughter named Ruth (coincidence? I think not!), and they like to share things. Which is good, because in exchange for our rock we got some ferns, which have been growing crazily along the side of their house. So now I have free ferns for my planters out front. Perfect. And, in exchange for our rock, we got some intel on our other neighbors….
Mr. Galoshes has a name! Walter. Never met a 30-something named Walter, so there’s a first time for everything, I guess. He and his wife have four kids (hence the Suburban). They are friends with Brian and Naomi and go to their home-church. They also used to own a tres-chic restaurant in a tres-chic neighborhood here. It was called the Chat Noir (French for “Black Cat”, I think), and they lived above it, I believe. It was in an old Victorian home, and was pretty cool, but it’s closed now. Walter and his wife, Michelle, bought 7 acres of the ravine behind their houses last year (across the street from us), and tore the fences down so their rugrats can run around down there. (Brian and Naomi also own part of it, too, and they invited us to explore it anytime!) There’s a creek and everything – how cool would that be if you were a kid? It’s right in the middle of the city, too. Big logs, wild raspberries and everything. (I think I should also tell them, however, about the sex offender who lives on the other side of the ravine. No lie! Remind me.) Walter is from Louisiana, which Michael and I surmise MIGHT be why he wears galoshes. I mean, down in the bayou, what are you supposed to wear? I think it’s harder for a gator to bite through rubber than leather. Slippery, you know? Especially if you coat them with tabasco. Plus, Michael and I saw Walter (with his two-year-old daughter, Annabelle, slung to his chest) emerge from the ravine at dusk – a nice little jaunt through the woods. Galoshes work perfectly for that, too. If ravine = galoshes, then Walter spends a lot of free time down there.
BREAKING NEWS: Walter (I can no longer call him Mr. Galoshes, but maybe Walter Galosh) was spotted walking around his front yard in sneakers yesterday! I couldn’t get the camera and in a covert position fast enough, so you’ll have to wait to see him. Sorry. I was in a state of shock at the moment.
With fascinating neighbors like this, I guess I should get out more often…
some of my favorite shots from this weekend. enjoy!
After whining about it long enough, I finally got my garden planted. It remainds to be seen whether I have a green thumb or the black hand of veggie death….
Ugh. I just used up the rest of my amaretto creamer, but it didn’t look like enough white stuff for my coffee, so I dumped in some half ‘n’ half. absolutely ruined my morning joe. One or the other, people, just remember that. Non-dairy and dairy don’t mix!
Well, now that I’ve wrecked it, perhaps some whipped cream will make it better….
We have a neighbor whom we realized deserves a paragraph in cyberspace. The man is a mystery. He lives across the street with his wife and kids, drives a Suburban (too slowly, in my opinion), and looks pretty normal. Until he gets out of it. The man has almost-knee-high galoshes on – the kind the Gorton’s Fisherman wears! We don’t live in a flood plain, so far as I know, and the forecast doesn’t call for rain until late next week. Literally, the man wears them rain or shine, hot or cold, EVERY SINGLE DAY. What is the deal? Does his wife not say, “Hey, Honey, you know it’s pretty warm out today, how about some sandals instead?” Or shoes, or even hiking boots but something other than those dang galoshes! Why, oh why? OK, if you want to own maybe only one pair of something to cover your feet, would galoshes be the most practical choice? I mean, they kinda make your feet sweat. Especially in summer. Not very warm in the winter. Perhaps, just maybe, I should possibly ask Michael to some time speak to him about his choice of footwear. Maybe Napoleon Dynamite is this guy’s fashion hero. Whatever it is, he’s rockin’ the pants-in-boots look!
Why is it that I hate growing up so much? Too many un-fun things to worry yourself with: the balance of your checkbook, the upkeep of your house, and the constant tug-of-war between your selfish self and your altruistic self. Oh. And doing dishes. I don’t know why I despise standing over the sink, hands in hot suds, scrubbing away at each and every dish we’ve used over the past 12 hours, but I do. Ask my mom, roommates or my husband. I was never the most detail-oriented when it came to doing dishes! This, I tell him, is why I need a dishwasher. Doesn’t seem to work, at least not yet. I just wanna sleep in, just wanna get on a plane with some friends and go to some exotic locale, just wanna blow our money on clothes! I think the transition from kid to adult was accelerated when we had our baby, but boy have I been dragging into it kicking and (inside) screaming! Wouldn’t trade it, though, so don’t get any ideas. Or tell Rhys.
There are good things about being an adult, though. When it comes to our daughter, I (we) am the boss! To her, I am the final say. Which is great but heavy at the same time. I get about 10 years of her absolute adoration – until she figures out that I don’t really know everything, and – horror of horrors – finds that I probably made a mistake (or two) in how we raised her. Another good “adult” thing: I can eat whatever I want, whenever I want! Seriously, how cool is that? If I want to order pop with my dinner, I can! (but it’s usually iced tea, so don’t worry, Mom) And if, right before bed I want to eat a quart of Reese’s ice cream, I can (and suffer the sugar high and heartburn, but it’s my prerogative)!
OK – since I’m whining, you tell me what you hate most about being a grown-up, and what you like best.
