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Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

15 July 2011

The Curse of the Weirdo Magnet Strikes Again

A couple of weeks ago, our one pair of polite, quiet neighbors moved out, leaving the other half of the house vacant.  Not having them there didn't make much of a difference in our lives, as they were very quiet, were rarely there, and I only saw them twice.  (And I didn't realize they had moved out until the landlord mentioned it, about a week after the fact.)


(That is my definition of a perfect neighbor, FYI.  I'm much happier if I don't know you exist.  It's not that I'm unfriendly, I just don't want to live next door to anybody.)


Anyway, the landlord popped over a week or so ago (prior to him seeing me naked, in case you were wondering) and told me that they'd rented the place out and we'd be getting a "Divorcee"  (I swear to God that's what he called her) and her teen-age daughter moving in.


Fabulous, I thought, though I must admit that when he said "divorcee" the image that immediately popped into my head was one of a skinny, ridden hard, left wet, desperate looking blonde holding a cigarette in one hand and an alimony check in the other.  (Seriously, what is this?  1965?  I can still hear my mother whispering to the other moms about the bee-hived floozy that had a daughter in my Brownie troupe, saying "She's a divorcee, you know..." to explain away her mini skirts and false eyelashes.  Things like that stick with you.  I remember being wildly jealous of the girl who's mother was divorced, because she seemed so glamorous.  I had high ambition when I was 5, to grow up and have false eyelashes and a big-ass beehive hairdo.)  


So yesterday The Divorcee and her kin started moving in.  I confess that I was half-hoping for someone fun that I could make friends with and relate to, despite the fact that I have yet to see anyone even remotely fitting that description since I've moved here.  


I snooped eagerly from the window, watching SUVs, vans, and sedans pull up outside and watched 5 overweight, middle-aged women with tattoos, cigarettes. and Vintage 1979 feathered bangs unload enough wicker furniture to set the entire county on fire.


I could hear them talking and laughing with that half cough-half laugh thing that pack-a-day smokers bring to the world.  


They all sounded like Gravel Gertie.


I couldn't for the life of me pick out which one was The Divorcee. 


I was oddly disappointed that none of them had on a mini skirt or false eyelashes.


I'm pretty sure that my dreams of a new bestie will not be coming true.


I would loooooooooooove to do something about their hair.   


  


(What does it say about me that I've already written this woman off because of her hair and furniture?  Never mind.  I already know.)