Where I Work Out My Childhood Issues, One Sandwich at a Time

So I am at a restaurant ordering food to go, when a weird exchange happens. The server at the counter is being exceptionally pushy the whole time, with everyone. But in particular these two guys ahead of me. I had seen them pull up in a work truck, but I can see how someone could mistake them for father and son. The older guy goes first, orders and Mr. Exuberant rings him up. The older guy goes to pay and the Mr. Exuberant says “shhh, wait, I’m going to get the other guy to pay.”

So the older guy is like “what?” just as Mr. Exuberant shouts to the younger guy, who is mid-order, “you’re paying for this, right?”

And the younger guy looks totally uncomfortable and I can see him put away some cash he had in his hands and reach in his wallet for a debit card. He mutters “sure.”

It brought me back to this super awkward moment about 10 years ago when I was at Fenway Park. A little league team was sitting behind me, and I noticed one kid right away. He was gawky and wore glasses, and just looking at him you knew he was the unpopular one. If he played at all, he played right field. Badly.

But he wanted so much to belong that he was willing to play badly, willing to be part of a team that obviously didn’t want him.

He had tried to strategically place himself between the cool kids, the ones whose parents coach the team and who are star pitchers and hitters, who probably attended the clinics with past baseball stars that the nerdier kid couldn’t afford. The cool kids are all jockeying to avoid him, and when they can’t, they speak around him, as if he is not there.

But the nerdy kid doesn’t care, he just basks in the attention that floats by him.

Until the peanut guy comes around and one of the cool kids whistles at him, to get him to throw the bags of peanuts. He throws a few down to the adults at the end of the aisle, who are so clearly wishing they could throw back beer instead of peanuts on this gorgeous summer evening. And the cool kids keep signaling for more and finally the nerdy kid catches one. He clearly doesn’t know why one was thrown to him, he can’t see the kids giggling and whispering around him.

His face goes white, then red as he stammers “I…I didn’t order this.”

The kids mess with him, telling him he has to pay. There were threats that he would get in trouble. And all the while this kid looks like he might pass out. He tries to pull out a crumpled dollar bill and count some change and the peanut guy is starting to get a little miffed and snaps his fingers.

Near tears myself, I reach down in my purse to pay for the peanuts. But when I turn around, bills in hand, the kid no longer has the bag and the cool kids have moved on.

But the nerdy kid hasn’t moved on, not really, though he’s trying to smile along with the cooler kids.

It’s hard for me to pay attention to the game now, I am constantly aware of this kid moving further and further down the social pecking order.

It’s because I was this kid.

Constantly starving for attention, not always understanding that the attention I was getting was at my expense, or not caring. I took everything so seriously, I never got the jokes.

It’s possible, of course, the cool kids were just screwing around, meant no malice. Just having fun at a kid they knew would rise to the occasion.

And of course, the man at the restaurant was an adult. He could have said no, he wasn’t paying. He could have laughed it off. And probably did later, sitting at the table with the older guy.

I know he’s not going home, hat in hand, telling his wife about his day, leaving this one part out the way I did with my parents. “Yes, Girl Scouts was great. We made bread.” Not discussing the fact that the girls were planning a sleepover right in front of me, with no intention of inviting me. Strategic omissions of things that at the time were so filled with shame and confusion. He probably just went home and told his wife about the jerk server who made him cough up another $10.

But for a moment that look on his face was the same as that little leaguers, the same as mine was a thousand times growing up.

Not knowing if you were part of the joke, or the butt of it.

Dog Fight

I’ve mentioned our rather crotchety neighbors, the Dietz’ before here where they lectured us on mowing 12 seconds after we moved in and here where they towed our neighbor's car for being near their illegal sprinkler system.

We’ve enjoyed a rather quiet relationship for them for most of the year we’ve had Wee ‘Burb. I figured it was because they never got around to giving us a present for the baby like some of the other neighbors, or really acknowledged her existence. But again, they didn’t tow my car, so I’m cool with it.

A few weeks ago, Scott came in and told me Mrs. Dietz yelled at him. Now it was 6 a.m. and he’d been working a lot so I was dubious as I said “she actually YELLED at you?” and he was all traumatized like “YEAH!”

So apparently the issue was a legit one. As I mentioned in my previous post, Cous Cous has an issue finding the perfect poop spot. So occasionally her favorite spot is on the line…or over the line…of our yard and theirs.

When she does cross the line, Scott does pick it up and bag it. I know this for sure because I often get halfway through my walk to discover I have no bags.

In the mornings, Mrs. Dietz has a creepy habit of hiding in the shadows and smoking…outside on the top of her deck, which by the way was taken down almost a year ago (just pointing out that for someone all worked up about image, she has a torn down deck and hangs out in her garage watching people go by). So she stands on these leftover pillars, basically, and I never see her except when Cous Cous goes nuts and barks at her.

But this time she stepped out of the shadows to say “it’s not very neighborly to let your dog crap on my lawn.” I kind of looked at Scott and said “Well, she’s kind of right.” I refrained from saying “I told you so” because we had this discussion and I said people without pets may be sensitive to us letting her go on the lawn, even if we clean it up.

So he tells Mrs. Dietz he’s sorry, that he does always clean it up. And she goes “I don’t care. Stephanie doesn’t do it, you know.” Um, once again, you’re not making yourself look great here, Mrs. Dietz, pointing out that you keep track of who takes Cous Cous where. But still, she has a legit complaint, and so far I’m not totally off her side.

Until Scott goes “Okay, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.” And instead of doing the mature thing and saying “it’s no problem, thanks” or something else acknowledging that he’s said it won’t happen again, she repeats “I'm saying it’s not neighborly. And Stephanie doesn’t do it, either.”

Now he has no clue what to say so he just mutters “uh huh” and “sorry” again and rushes Cous Cous back inside.

So, this plagued him for awhile and then a week when he was gone, a tree blew down. The tree starts in their yard, but landed in ours. I told Scott we should pick it up so we don't have problems with them, but events got crazy and when he went out to investigate to see if we should call the city, he noticed it was gone and figured out Mr. Dietz had cleaned it up.

So he goes over to Mr. Dietz and gives him a cutting board that Scott engraved as a peace offering. And Mr. Dietz is super cordial, no thanks necessary, no problem cutting down the tree, etcetera. So we figure maybe it’s just Mrs. Dietz with the bug up her ass.

Well, we had a big turnout for Wee ‘Burb’s birthday, which coincided with a huge storm here in Suburbia. We did what we could to snowblow the driveway and the road around our house so that people could park. When a few guests came in rattled, we figured it was the bad roads. But after a few glasses of wine, the truth came out: apparently Mr. and Mrs. Dietz were yelling at people who parked too close to their driveway.

Not blocking it. Just too near it.

The snowbanks were too large to be parked ON their lawn, so I have no clue who they think they are yelling at ANYONE who parks on the PUBLIC street. And we don't have snow emergency rules out here, you just get plowed in if you're on the street.

A few people moved and a few other people resisted the urge to flip them the proverbial bird. Reports were they were standing in their garage and by their front door just shouting at people to move their cars! On my daughter’s first birthday! Which they ABSOLUTELY knew about.

So, it’s on. Official Neighborhood Enemies! Welcome to Suburbia, friends!