Like a Good Neighbor

It’s amazing how much life can change in a matter of days. Here’s something fun: I’ve unintentionally lost a few pounds during this whole fiasco. Who knew that anxiously watching your beloved state devolve into a near civil war would be as good a weight-loss technique as having your jaw wired shut?

Given the fact that I will shortly be taking a pay cut to help cover a corporate tax break for Domino’s Pizza, we will be taking the hovel off the market and staying here for the foreseeable future. (Hiii-yo! Sorry. I really couldn’t help that. It just slipped out.)

So you know how we had some crazy-ass neighbors across the street for the last four years? Last fall they foreclosed on their house, walking away from all of their personal belongings: lawn furniture, mattresses, tricycles, lamps, desks, La-Z boy chairs, clothing. Five dump trucks hauled it away, including the mountain of debris they left in the driveway. (That second link takes you to one of my favorite scenes of all time. Seriously.)

Until a few days ago there was FOR SALE sign planted in their lawn, and of course we went online to see what our competition was asking. People. Check it. They bought that house for $125,000 back in 2005. The bank? Sold it for $40,000. Yowza.

The pictures told some of the story: mold on the walls, mysterious stains on the carpet, brand-spanking new bathroom sink and vanity because God only knows what they did to the last one, the garage service door left open all winter.

Even though they scared the hell out of me, I’m going to miss their strange friendliness. Never again will I have a Hoverround-bound neighbor who proudly tells my husband that he recently caught his catheter on something and tore his penis in half.

(Because you can’t see me through Teh Internets, I’ll just have to tell you that I have a lone tear slowly streaking down my cheek right now.)

This past weekend I witnessed another neighbor sell drugs to a blonde driving a tan Mercedes SUV. Well, okay, I didn’t watch the actual transaction so much as spy on her backing out of his driveway. She was just another in a parade of yuppies leaving his house in expensive cars that in no way, shape, or form resemble any of the actual vehicles driven by my neighbors.

I angrily scribbled her license plate number down, and then I had to wonder what the hell I was going to do with it. Track her down online and shovel “Just Say No!” into a snowdrift in her front yard?

Anyway, regardless of the tragic-comedic stylings in Wisconsin, spring is coming, and I have a few fun things up my sleeve. More on that in the weeks to come, so stay tuned!