Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Neighbors & f-Words
I think we moved next door to Animal House. No, not every day is this way, but Sunday afternoons in my mind are best enjoyed without a lot of f-this and f-that. I’ll cut the guys some slack, because I do vaguely remember what it was like to be young.
Last Sunday, there were at least 15 people over there, drinking around the swimming pool and being loud and obnoxious as I imagine college students are prone to being when they are away from mom and dad. They really didn’t swim, and I am thankful for that. I sneaked a peak over the fence and the water in that pool is murky, algae green. Not good. Poor husband can barely contain himself from going over and offering to clean it up for the guys.
My first house as a grown-up wasn’t a nice one bought by daddy or mom like the house next door. I got married after my freshman year, and my husband and I rented a second-floor apartment close to the University, which we furnished with cast-off second-hand junk. We were too busy studying, going to class and working work-study jobs to care much about the neighbors. But we did get to know them well enough to borrow a ladder to climb in the window the night we locked ourselves out. It is always practical to know your neighbors.
So, guys next door, party if you must—just have it wrapped up it before my bedtime. That’ll be about 10 p.m.