I almost chuckled out loud at the comment on Dooce about dreaming about your suburban neighbors. Since moving, I have been scoping for a child in the ‘hood to befriend my child, and a perfect cool mom that I can borrow sugar from. That is not my upbringing, though.
Back in my childhood I knew a few neighbors up the street who loved mixing their cocktails together. They were on either side of our “not in the group” house. I’d see them walk back and forth – either to the Tashers’, who had a luau lounge in their backyard (I know, fierce), or the Lasleys’, who had a bar upstairs with a balcony that overlooked the street. They seemed to have some good, rum-soaked fun. They seemed like the “Love, American-Style” kind of glam, fun, Marina del Rey, early ’70s, frosted lipstick, carefree bunch
Our family was either polite or hostile to our neighbors, in general. Partly because my folks weren’t drinkers, and mostly because of my dad’s involvement in small town politics. When he ran for re-election, some neighbors put up signs for his opponent. They are still dead to us. Some actually are dead, but we aren’t forgiving them either.
Recently I had the chance to enter the homes of the swinging neighbors and was shocked to see how small and ordinary their homes were. One, like us, only had one bathroom. All that drinking and only one bathroom.