Good Fences

I am a cynic at heart. It comes naturally to me to think the worst of people, long before I've gotten to know them. I suppose it's a bi-product of those adolescent years of low self-esteem; back then, rather than feel better about myself by learning to love myself, I coped with my awkwardness and poor social skills by feeling better about myself via internally putting down those around me.

I'm trying to get better about this. Now that I've come to accept myself and therefore have higher self-esteem, I am more open to others, and therefore I usually wait closer to five minutes into a conversation with someone new before I write them off as a loser.

Just kidding.

Although, really, it's just easier not to even make the effort. The more friends one has, the more one feels pressured to keep up with them, and – honestly – that cuts alarmingly into my movie-watching-while-eating-fattening-food time. Hence why I've yet to join Facebook or figure out what “tweeting” entails. And why, when walking past a neighbor's house, I pretend to be deep in thought about subatomic particles and their effect on the cosmos, thereby rendering it physically impossible for me to make eye contact with said neighbor. And, really, I think said neighbor is feigning an unwholesome interest in the composition of his lawn's fertilizer, all so he can ignore me anyway.

Take the neighbors to our left, for instance. They consist of a couple with their two college-aged, still-at-home kids. We find the mom and son to be disturbingly addicted to lawn care. The mother stands outside and loudly discusses with her son how she wants the flowers tended, and the son drags out the lawn mower at least every other day in the summer. We've never seen the husband and wife interact, so we feel free to make frequent allusions to 'mamma's boys' and 'Oedipus complexes' every time the lawnmower starts up again.

We're probably just jealous, because their grass is greener. We have weeds and dirt, plus piles of lumber in our front yard and a work trailer parked off to the side. Our yard constantly looks trashed; even more so than that of the White Trash Neighbors to our right. Perhaps that's why the Oedipus Neighbors fervently manicure their lawn: they're afraid our trashiness is catching.

Last summer, without consulting us, Oedipus Mom hired a contractor to tear down the fence between our two back yards, replacing it with one that was several feet higher and extended ALL the way down our property line. I suppose they were tired of the lumberyard in front. Hell, I'm tired of the lumberyard in front . . . just not enough to actually do anything about it.

Bee shook his head as he watched the contractors erecting the fence. I was in the midst of movie-watching-while-eating-fattening-food time, but Bee's frequent loud sighs were becoming distracitng.

“What's that saying?” I finally reasoned. “'Good fences make good neighbors'?”

“I've got another saying for you,” Bee responded. “'Nothing says 'Fuck Off' quite like an eight-foot fence'.”

It's true; they probably don't like us. But I'm open to changing my opinion on that.

Take today, for instance. It's been snowing over here for the past few days, and yesterday the snowplow made an appearance on our street . . . depositing a hill of snow right at the foot of our driveway. This morning I bundled Mr. C into his carseat and backed down the drive in preparation of an expedition, only to get stuck in the snow at the bottom. I tried rocking the car forward and reverse, repositioning the steering wheel, and a few other things that have generally worked for this City Slicker, all to no avail. Sighing, I got out of the car and fetched a shovel.

Now, I am all for equality of the sexes, but I must admit that there are times when it's better to be a woman. If Bee had been home and had been stuck in the snow, any neighbors watching the spectacle would probably have left him to fend for himself. But most people feel guilty watching a woman hunched over with a shovel, digging at snow under the car that's conveniently blocking half the road. As I dug, I made it a game to see how long it would take for someone to come help, confident as I was that help would, indeed, arrive.

Had I truly been in need of help, I suppose I could have sniffed in a piteous manner more loudly, or dragged Mr. C from the carseat and encouraged him to stand in the snow crying. Maybe then help would have arrived in under two minutes. As it was, it took five minutes of digging before I heard voices and the sound of a shovel being scraped along the sidewalk towards me. Looking up, I beheld Oedipus Mom and Son, good-naturedly trundling along to dig me out. More to the point, Son dug me out while Mom supervised and loudly complained about the snowplows feeling the need to plow our street. Despite the fact that I had been glad to see the snowplow yesterday, I felt it impolite, under the circumstances, to disagree with her.

It took just another minute of shoveling before we figured the car was relatively free, then Mom and Son pushed while I threw the car in reverse and backed all the way onto the street. I thanked them profusely, then drove off as they (well, he – while she supervised) continued to clear a spot in front of my driveway so I could get back up it later.

This afternoon I brought them a jar of my homemade strawberry-rhubarb preserves to thank them for their thoughtfulness. Son answered the door, accepting the jar and telling me it wasn't a problem. Our seven-second conversation was the longest we'd ever had.

And now I have a warm-and-fuzzy feeling for them, damn it. Now I'll have to re-adjust their status in my 'socially-acceptable' list. Now I'll have to make a point to smile when I pass them, because now we have a history. But I suppose that's OK.

As long as it doesn't cut into my movie-watching-while-eating-fattening-food time.