I am hesitant to tell you about my neighbors because one story leads to a thousand and one stories. You guys know how I am about tangents. But here we go.
I live in a slum on the Wasatch "Front," the valley wherein Salt Lake City is located. It's probably the most prestiguous slum as it IS on the east side of Interstate 15. I like it because its in the middle of everything but still has a small-town feel when I walk our black lab, Chloe. It's about as diverse as Utah gets.
When I went to get Ethan from kindergarten today I noticed someone had driven their truck onto the playground and circled 3/4 of the school during school hours so they could park right at the door where the 5 and 6 year olds bust loose. I wish I had thought of that and then I could show off for the moms by doing some donuts on the lawn.
There are a few prominent mothers:
A young woman with platinum blonde hair, very thin and well dressed. She drives an older BMW and often wears visors and baseball hats with "bad-itude." She doesn't really have a chin and her make-up is caked on. Her eyeliner overshoots the end of her lid like a busy flagellum. I feel bad because for all her efforts to look elegant she just can't hide The Trashy. I've been avoiding talking to her because of the inevitable obligatory "hellos" and chit chat that will follow once I do. The first conversation I heard from her was when another dad asked her, "Aren't you working at the gas station today?" To which she responded, "I don't work there no more." I imagine conversations where she explains how crazy all of her friends are and how she is the "responsible" one in her circle. I am absolutely willing to give her the benefit of the doubt there.
Her friend and counterpart is a dark-haired mother whose secret identity is constantly being compromised when her bright red "Superman" thong creeps above the waistline of her "Daisy Duke" cut-offs. She boisterously told us all how she fell down a flight of stairs from laughter the first time she saw a male stripper. Another father suggested that she go to Vegas for "quality" entertainment; that the stock in Wendover is no good.
There is an older, rounder mother who also joins in. She has short hair and speaks like she has had a tracheotomy. There are no other signs that she has had a tracheotomy.
The last mother I'd like to describe recently rented the house next door to us. She doesn't like to talk. She gives everyone a wide berth and rarely makes eye contact. She has five kids, 9 and younger. They are wild. I see her five year old bookin' it down the street towards the park on his BigWheel. Apparently no one has taught him the meaning of the red octagons. He and his little brother are also fond of straddling my six foot cedar fence and grinding from one end of the yard to the other. They climb up, barefoot, from the far side where an old house was recently bulldozed after someone was shot there. I don't know the details of that story.
The neighbor kids are in my backyard more than I am. The mother is back there a lot, too, looking for the kids. Their family owns two minivans: one for driving, the other for storage. Seeing that fake tree crammed inside against the windshield gets me in the mood for a merry christmas. The mother drives around the block leaning out of the open window, rounding up the kids when it starts to get dark. There was a billiard table visible through the window of their front room for a while.
I'm not sure if the couple shares clothes but there is at least a common theme: "Anthrax," "Megadeth;" shirts of that nature, with or without sleeves. Tank tops, boxer shorts, sweat pants, pyjamas. I think she considers anything beyond boxer shorts "dressed for the day." During the first few days of school I saw one of the moms and I thought, "That neighbor of mine cleans up well when she wants to." It turns out that was a different mom and I still haven't seen my neighbor in anything but boxers or pyjamas.
I assume this is a situation unique to my neighborhood. I can't say I don't worry about these people but I like my neighborhood. Except that every stray dog seems to be a pitbull. But I'm gonna buy an ebook on becoming a Hitman and that problem should go away. That is just the tip of the iceberg. I'll have to tell about my immediate neighbors another time.