Randy and I are the best neighbors. Seriously, you can’t do better than us.
We will leave you the fuck alone.
It’s not that we’re antisocial. We like people. We love people. In theory.
In practice, not so much. In practice, we will jump through hoops to avoid most of them.
It’s possible we are slightly antisocial.
I’m not rude or anything.
If I make eye contact, I will give a head nod and a smile. Perhaps, a slight wave.
If a neighbor says hello, I will respond in kind. If a neighbor asks how I am, I always say fine and pray to the gods they respond to my query with a similar 4 letter word like “good” or “okay”.
That is pretty far as I am willing to take any social interaction with the other humans living in the dwellings adjacent to mine.
So, is this how meeting my new neighbor went?
A slight head nod? Perhaps a brief exchange of names?
Of course not. I am me, so of course not.
I bought this stuff to put on my feet because damn. I could get a pedicure every other day and my heels would look like elephant skin. Same color and everything.
Anyway, you put your feet into these slimy booties and wear them for an hour. Then in a week, the gross skin peels off and your feet look amazing. I have actually done this two other times and the treatment works pretty good. Other than on my heels. There’s just no hope.
Because I like to ignore the fact that I’m clumsy as shit and optimistic about my chances of survival when contemplating doing something sketchy, I decided to walk around in these booties.
It’s kind of like snow skiing, except there aren’t any hills and you don’t have skis and your feet are hot and sliding about in slimy gel. So, you know, exactly like snow skiing.
I walked out on my deck and watched the birds. Randy is an insane bird dude and has been feeding the wildlife in our yard. The weather was comfortable, which was awesome because it’s been stupid hot. Or storming like a motherfucker. There has been no in between. Well, until now.
So, I’m sitting on my deck in my jammies and plastic booties, when the neighbor next door calls over to me.
Neighbor: Excuse me?
Me: Fucking shit. Is there anyone else out here? Is she talking to me? Yes?
Neighbor: Do you have baggies on your feet?
Me: Yes. Yes I do.
Me: It’s a foot thing.
Me: Yeah, that didn’t sound weird. You put these gel filled baggies on your feet for an hour and then after a week, the dead skin peels off.
Neighbor: Yeah? Have you done it before? Do they work?
Me: I have. They work pretty good. I mean, not on my heels, but my heels are disgusting. Seriously, if I got all the dead skin off my heels, I’d be shorter. And walking around in these things is treacherous. I’ll probably end up with a head injury.
Neighbor: Okay! I’ll have to look in to that.
Then she went inside. More accurately, she backed up and went inside.
I think that went really well. I mean, we didn’t exchange names or anything, but that’s cool. There’s no reason to rush things. I just want to see how this relationship unfolds. I feel pretty good about getting the inevitable “state of my heels” conversation over with early on.
So that is what I do.
My first line of defense is always to avoid eye contact, but that doesn’t always work.
So, then maybe a nod or a wave and an awkward smile.Unless, someone fucking talks to me.
Later this week, I have my yearly lady doctor appointment.
Maybe, next time I see my neighbor I’ll have the opportunity to tell her about my vaginal health. Bonus if it’s a week from now. I’ll probably be on the deck peeling dead skin from my feet.
Except not from my heels. Like I said, there is no hope for them.