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.)