New neighbors

First impressions are important- getting off on the right foot is essential to effective relationship-building. Yeah- this bitch has two left feet, apparently. And my first social encounter with my new neighbors was about as awkward as two strangers at a middle school dance.

When I first came to the house to move in, my new roommate cleverly hid my set of keys in an inconspicuous location where no thief would ever dare look - under the flower pot off the front porch (clever, like a wallet in the toe of your shoe at the beach). So after receiving my instructions to retrieve the keys from this amazingly confidential spot, I pulled up to the house and had my first look at my new home (yes, I signed a lease site-unseen ... I've lived with enough psychos that I'm sure I've exhausted the mentally-insane population by now).

I began the hunt for my hidden keys. What my roommate forgot to tell me, however, was WHICH flower pot I should look under- there were about 6 altogether. So I went up on the porch and tried the first on the right ... and nothing. Then the one in front of the porch- again, nothing. I lifted each flower pot, and then again a second time, frantic and concerned that our secret exchange had been compromised.

Until the front door slowly opened, and a middle-aged woman suspiciously cocked her head out of the door, and sternly inquired- "Excuse me! Can I help you?!?"

*ahem* "Um ... yes ma'am, I'm your new neighbor, and I happen to be looking for my keys on the wrong porch."

"Mmhmm." *door slams*

Well, screw first impressions. It's like the first time you have sex- you think it's allllll important and everything, but after a few awkward motions and avoided eye contact you realize it wasn't enjoyable for either party.

Round 2, only this time it was with her son. Yesterday I was enjoying a PB&J on the front porch (neighbors comment- "Hey look! White bred eating white bread! The irony!"), when the same front door swung open and an 8-year-old boy meandered out on to the porch. He was dressed in his pajamas, and I believe he is mentally retarded or developmentally delayed in some capacity.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm enjoying a pleasant peanut butter and jelly sandwich on this fine day, dear neighbor. And how about yourself?"

"Get the fuck inside the house."

Silence.

"Um ... I'm sorry?"

"You heard me, get the fuck inside the house!"

More silence. "Well, um ... no, actually, I'm eating my lunch and I intend to finish it."

"Do you have a bike?"

(this conversation was like chimpanzees playing ping pong) "Nope, don't have a bike. Do you?"

"Mine's broke. Do you have a bike?"

"Nope, I sure don't."

"Get the fuck inside the house!" *door slams*

Sigh ... Well, it's not Mister Roger's Neighborhood, but at least it's home. And honestly, I wouldn't feel comfortable unless I had some amount of insanity living nearby.

OMG ... I just realized how gay Mister Roger's was. The clothes, the spotlessness, the singing and cheery disposition ... however the difference between Mr. R and myself is that if I went parading down the street singing "Won't you be my neighbor?", I'm liable to get shot.

But hey, even Mr. R liked a good pistol-whipping every now and then.