So, we’ve lived in our house for about three years.

My commuter community neighbourhood, coupled with my hermit tendencies doesn’t make for close next-door relationships.

We smile at our neighbours. We say ‘hi’ if we pass each other on the sidewalk. We even help one another shovel our driveways.

That’s pretty much as far as it goes however.


Case and point:

When I was 39 weeks pregnant, in labour and about to be driven to the hospital, we met our neighbours as they arrived home.

They saw our overnight bags and commented.

Neighbour: Oh, are you going on vacation?
Husband: No, we’re on our way to the hospital.
Neighbour: Oh no! You’re not sick, are you?
Me: Uh, no. I’m pregnant.


Seriously. I’m so huge I was getting offers to be sponsored by Goodyear, and my sweet, concerned neighbour doesn’t know I’m pregnant.

Apparently, I’d just been having a whole lot of fat days.

Anyhow, she’s not the only one that has fallen down on the job.

I had great plans, when we moved in, to be the best neighbours. Cookies at Christmas, the whole bit.

I’m an utter failure.

I don’t know their names, for example.

We’re at the point where it’s just to embarrassing to ask, you know?

We’ve lived by them for three years and I knew her name was “Something German”.

My thank-you-for-the-baby-gift card to her read, “Thanks, Neighbour!”


I rectified the point today, however.

See, we go to the same chiropractor.

I sneaked (snuck?) a look at her file.


Don’t tell anyone.


About Angela

My name is Angela. I am a 28 year old psych and criminology graduate, but I'd rather not diagnose you. I am a cuddle-slut. I can recite the entire script of The Princess Bride, (including accents) and believe that the meaning of life is contained within. Polyanna, commercials, and Oprah 'reunion shows' make me cry. I can whistle and hum at the same time, but I cannot touch my toes. I am an expert in both listening and talking. I look good in orange. I am a writer. I kick ass in Gin, Hearts, and Cribbage but I don't understand Canasta or Bridge. I can be heard singing Broadway numbers from my shower, and have dressed up as a viking princess, (complete with aluminum foil breast plate) The Phantom of the Opera, and a Ghostbuster for Hallowe'en. I have a bird named Bean. I have a brother named Adam. They are not related. I like vanilla body lotion, peanut butter, saunas, Jim Carrey, broccoli, pets,, Muppets, Kevin Smith, Corelle dishes, dry erase white-boards, Barenaked Ladies, Philosophy, the letter J, Harry Potter, picture frames, swimming, quilting, Michael Moore, genealogy, Raggedy Anne, tacky 50's tchotchke, 'Idiot's Complete Guide To' books, tweezers, feather pillows, polar dips, aquariums, Martin Luther King Jr., and Dr. Pepper. I don't like meat, gossips, cooked carrots, American Idol, mosquitoes, sweating, politics, public washrooms, tardiness, tuition, hunting, pat answers, pick up lines, brown bananas, cliches, pine scented air freshener, Kevin Costner, bacon, candied apples, pro-wrestling, humidity, and hypocrisy. Books I've read recently The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, The Dark Tower, When Nietzsche Wept, What's So Amazing About Grace?, Catcher in the Rye, Not Wanted On the Voyage, The Red Tent, The Little Prince, The Way the Crow Flies, Slaughterhouse-Five, The Poisonwood Bible, The Fall, The Knot of Vipers, Calculating God, The Chrysalids, Sick Puppy, Nineteen Eighty-Four, Franny and Zooey, The Brothers Karamazov, and jPod. I am slightly neurotic. No I'm not. Yes I am.

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