A Cup of Metal
A private person by heart, I can think of only one location in the past 22 years where I've gotten to know my neighbors, if you don't count college dorm rooms (Hi, Milissa and Tom & Janet up in North Dakota!). Perhaps it's just my inherent transient nature, spurred on by the fact that we've always been the new people on the block. I'm sure if I ever got new neighbors we'd be the first one out with the welcome beers. Woman who stopped by with cookies after we moved in? BFF. Person across the street with the broken basketball hoop and screechy tweens keeping my kids up during nap time? Don't be expecting Christmas Cards, because your name escapes me.
As it is, in a cul de sac of six houses, I only know two people. After over 4 years. Although one of the people's dogs I know. Tully. But don't commit that name to memory, because Griffin is bound to eat her any second now, once her untethered curiosity of our patio refrains from being cute.
At any rate, I'm happy with my insular, protective ways, but appreciate that I at least do know somebody in the case of an emergency, like tonight, when the piece of crap Specialty Southpaw Can Opener I bought my wife two months ago stopped working, rusted and immobile like a miniature recently unimmersed Titanic. I was in charge of making dinner for the rest of my family, arriving in just five minutes, and dammit They Will Have Peas.
I called Ainsley's phone for advice, but she directed me to a backup postage stamp-sized little metal hinge with a point on one end with a name like P-36 or something, which Army people used to open cans of sardines in the Spanish-American War. No, dammit, I'm not going to go poking willy nilly until the tin becomes whiffled enough to leak out the ingredients. This is the 21st century.
So I stomped across the cul de sac in my socks, knocked on the door, and throist the can upon Matt. "Would you please open this?"
Bless his heart, he tried to twist it open in mock superhuman strength, but reverted to a regular can opener, something I can't even provide for my family.
This is why, as I've said many times, vegetables are bad for you.
As it is, in a cul de sac of six houses, I only know two people. After over 4 years. Although one of the people's dogs I know. Tully. But don't commit that name to memory, because Griffin is bound to eat her any second now, once her untethered curiosity of our patio refrains from being cute.
At any rate, I'm happy with my insular, protective ways, but appreciate that I at least do know somebody in the case of an emergency, like tonight, when the piece of crap Specialty Southpaw Can Opener I bought my wife two months ago stopped working, rusted and immobile like a miniature recently unimmersed Titanic. I was in charge of making dinner for the rest of my family, arriving in just five minutes, and dammit They Will Have Peas.
I called Ainsley's phone for advice, but she directed me to a backup postage stamp-sized little metal hinge with a point on one end with a name like P-36 or something, which Army people used to open cans of sardines in the Spanish-American War. No, dammit, I'm not going to go poking willy nilly until the tin becomes whiffled enough to leak out the ingredients. This is the 21st century.
So I stomped across the cul de sac in my socks, knocked on the door, and throist the can upon Matt. "Would you please open this?"
Bless his heart, he tried to twist it open in mock superhuman strength, but reverted to a regular can opener, something I can't even provide for my family.
This is why, as I've said many times, vegetables are bad for you.
posted by Dan at 10:00 PM
2 Comments:
Bloomington... good times.
Living on a cul de sac as well, I cannot relate to not knowing the neighbors. Being that there are a total of 11 boys on my court alone... and they bounce from house to house... Talk about "it takes a village".
I would really rather not.
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