I know that a certain someone has an issue with me bitching about my neighbors. But well, I don't really fucking care what they think.
My neighbors are at it again. There are certain things I really like about our neighborhood. The amount of playmates for Jill. The way the older children look out for the younger children. The way I know, without a doubt, if there actually was an emergency there would be at least five people willing to help out with the kids. You know, if I blatantly asked. Jumped up and down waving a flag. Set myself on fire. Something along those lines. I am just not on their concern radar. Which is kind of deserved on my part. I don't really try to fit in or hang out or make nice or whatever. I converse at the bus stop. I chat for a minute when the kids together. But I don't show up for the mommy breakfasts or the movie nights or the other activities. Partly, cause I work. And the other part, cause if Kenny is going to watch the kiddos and give me a night of freedom, I am going to hang out with my friends I rarely see. Not the neighbors who tend to make catty comments about me and my age. But that is all besides the point.
One of my neighbors had surgery. Cosmetic surgery. Which is cool. I mean, I want new boobs and all. But it isn't like she has a life threatening illness. Another neighbor set about organizing a schedule for meals to be brought to her and her child (her older child...not young child, mind you) babysat. The same was done for another neighbor when she had surgery last year. Now, when I had surgery, did I even get a, "Hey how you feelin'?" Nope. Nothing. Nor did they offer to help out when Emmi had her skull drilled into. Or you know, any of the other times Emmi has had to go to Texas Children's. Or when I had that little thing....what was it called? Oh yes, cancer. Nope none of those times. We managed. Kenny watched children AND cooked dinner. My mom came to town when needed. Imagine that. I mean, can anyone say "pizza delivery?" So maybe I was being a bitter, when I was approached to help. But really? I just didn't have time this week. None. I am working my tail off this week. Like eighteen hour days. Next weekend we are hosting Kenny's mom's 60th birthday. One where we sort of promised to finish the little construction project in our backyard. The one that has about forty hours of work left to be completed. Plus, quite frankly, I just can't afford to buy food for them. So I said no. To both cooking and babysitting.
Apparently, though no does not mean no. It means maybe. So the next time I was asked, I gave in. I caved. I agreed to bring one meal over. Nothing more, nothing less. As soon as I sighed the word, "Okay," I was briefed on what an acceptable meal was. No casserole. Nothing saucy. Nothing spicy. Preferably a meat, a side dish, and rolls. And they heard Kenny made really good smoked chicken, so that would actually be best to bring over. I looked around. I glanced down at myself. Nope. No apron. No caterers' uniform. For serious? What happened to just graciously accepting what was given to you? Now you get to place orders? At least, I managed to shut the door before I started screaming.
By Thursday, I had calmed down. One meal. I mean it wasn't really that big of a deal. Even though this lady has never so much as said more than "Hi" to me. One meal. My calm peace ended when I turned the corner to see her outside walking, not her dog, but the other neighbor's dog. I rolled down the window. "Oh I see you are feeling better!" She smiled. "I feel great. I can't believe how good I am feeling. I was able to get out of the house a bit today to go out to lunch." I smiled. Perfect. She can get up and about. I am off the hook for the dinner! Lalalala! All that fretting and fuming for nothing. I was a happy camper. I was peachy. The birds were singing.....
Until they called to remind me what time they like to eat.