No Good Neighbors

Except for the guy that lived next door to our first apartment together, this was the guy who'd ask you for a ride to work if, in the morning, you ran into each other in the hallway. He'd then proceed to talk, talk, talk, talk your ear off. . . before you'd had your damned coffee. Eventually I got wise and just waited for him to leave every morning. Yes, I am that sad.

Except for that guy, we've been pretty lucky as far as neighbors go. There were the very stylish guys who collected antiques and were quiet in Pennsylvania; there was the super-hipster who worked as a chemist for Aveda; there was the goof-ball, postman/landlord who liked to get high and had a crazed killer of a giant-assed dog; and there were the sweet, racist couple who took very good care of us in what could've been the very scary mountains of North Carolina.

And then there were Nick and Jen. Nick and Jen who became ersatz baby-sitters on the fly; Nick and Jen who'd happily let the boys come into their yard and give Katie and I ten minutes to catch our breath or mow or paint the kitchen (again); Nick and Jen who were quiet, friendly and treated Max and Miles like favorite nephews. They were the best neighbors in a long line of good neighbors. No matter how many times they came out their back door, they always gave Max a little bit of their time. Let me tell you: that's a lot of "Oh! Hello, Nick!"s/Oh! Hello, Jen!"s. A LOT OF THEM. Of course, now they've up and moved away, off the the wilds of Anchorage, AK.

I'm probably jinxing ourselves in the worst possible way by simply posting this. 'Course, it probably isn't helping that, everytime the Landlord brings prospective, new renters around, we amp the boys up on M & Ms and send them outside, streaked with red marker and fake knives.

To our good friends, Nick and Jen, from all four of us, we give the heartiest of thanks and the best wishes for good luck on their new adventure.