New Blood

I missed last week’s blog, and for that, I apologize.

I made it through the work week without killing our showrunner, I finished copy-edits on the series bible (barring some character pages), commissioned some art for the upcoming patreon, and got to read a graphic novel while traveling. It finally quit raining every day (in PA) allowing me to power wash the deck in anticipation for staining.

Cosmetically it’s in bad shape, but so am I.

We came to this neighborhood last year because the spouse and I are (will be) 50-somethings; it’s a townhome community loaded with trees and old folks–at least until we moved here. Our arrival kicked off a strange gentrification wherein the old folks are selling their houses to couples at the younger spectrum of our generation. Our younger siblings, the ones that were teens when Nirvana came out. These couples are in their comfort zone now, steady careers and little kids in school/starting school.

I don’t mind them, oddly, I enjoy hearing little kids raising hell in the “common areas,” those green open spaces with brilliant acoustics and trees that make excellent hiding places. Our aging boomer neighbors aren’t down with many of the new arrivals, and as I edit away on my series, I see out my window the contractors called upon by my immediate neighbors to replace carpets and floors and put in new AC units. I see many open-house weekends in my future; let’s hope they love my freshly stained deck.

I wonder if our new neighbors will have kids.

There are four homes per unit, and the older couple to the left of my front door (they have the second inner home) seem keen to put their townhouse up for sale ASAP. The young renters in the end unit they shared a wall with moved out last month, and a new family moved in yesterday. First observations reveal an attractive plus-size mom with a toddling preschooler and a chubby boisterous first-grade girl. Spouse is scarce, but there’s one somewhere because she keeps saying “when Daddy comes home” loud enough for me to hear it, two houses down. Three large older women ranging from Walmart Wanda to Avon Calling, oversee the move-in; this might explain why Daddy chose to work on the day of the move. As I power wash my deck, the first-grader Honey Boo Boo clone bounces over to observe.

When I stopped to take a swig of my water, she asks, are you married? I assure her that I am married. Looking at the water stripped wood, she turns back to me and asks, do you have a husbint? I gave her the extra bottle of water I have tucked in my cooler and say, yes, I have one of those. Taking a sip, she cocks her blond wavy head up at me and asks, shouldn’t your husbint be doing this? Husbints do this stuff, you know. I look over the rim of my glasses and kindly explain that my husbint and I are a team, and if my team wants to get this deck ready for summer over the course of this weekend, each of us needs to take turns doing different things. The girl nods and smiles, and gives thanks to me for the drink before running back to her patio. An alarmingly stocky woman awaits her with a demand to know where the hell she got that wooder.

I’m going to fucking love this family.
My neighbors, not so much.

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