Neighbors – you gotta love…nope, nope, I can’t.

Something happened this weekend that I can’t decide if I think is funny. Or gross. Or funny. Or icky. You decide.

Some background:
We have semi-new neighbors living next door. They moved in 6 months or so ago I guess. Two families live there – two brothers, their wives, and assorted kids (all boys), ranging in age from 16-ish to about 18 months. One of the wives has another one on the way. At the moment, we are talking 9 people in a five bedroom house. That doesn’t count the cat that looks terrified every time I see it, and the two dogs perpetually tied up out back, yelping their brains out pretty much 24/7 (one of which they acquired by renting a car, driving to CALIFORNIA and buying from some lady on the Internet). For all I know, there is a Grandma tied up in the basement and another family living in the garage/shed. Did I mention they have a hive of bees too? They like to put on beekeeper headdresses, sit in lawn chairs and read “BeeKeeping for Idiots” whilst staring at the hive.

But I digress.

(I should add that as I type this, one of the kids is outside making what can only be described as an attempt to sound like a police siren when the battery is dying – sort of a sad, but awfully annoying, “whoop, whoop, whoop” which is punctuated every few times by someone yelling “IN THE NAME OF THE LAWWWWWWWWWW”)

Anyhoo….my twins and two of the boys (about 9 or 10 years old each) are sitting outside underneath our tree, appearing to play quietly with Pokemon stuff. (Pokemon being the spawn of the devil but that’s another story for another time. I don’t know what drunk idiots came up with that concept , but I guess they are rich drunk idiots, so there you go). Out of the blue, I hear one of the boys say “I LOVE big fat boobs.”

Um, say what WHAT?

To which one of my twins says “We don’t have those.”

Not yet kiddo, not yet.

So, being the responsible parent I am, I march out and proceed to give said brats, I mean kids, a lecture on the use of the “b” word and how I don’t want to hear them talking about it in my yard anymore. “Oh, okay, yeah, okay.”

Flash forward five minutes.

I see one of my twins running around in a section of the yard previously off limits because it’s our garden staging area. I ask her what she’s doing and she tells me that she is running from one of the boys who is “trying to touch her boobs.”

Um, say what what, part two.

Immediately the kid’s cousin throws him under the bus by saying, “yep, that’s what he was doing.” Which comes out sounding like “heppzatsuthe’zduing” because this one has been cursed by a speech impediment that sounds like he is gargling with gravel. Meanwhile, the petite pervert is booking it towards his own house when I stop him to give him a speech about how inappropriate his actions are (although I threw in the word “dude” because after all, I am cool) and how if he does it again he can’t come over.

Sigh.

The problem here is that I didn’t hear the pint sized potential pedo-okay, okay, I’ll stop - actually commit the crime so I’m not feeling like I have a leg to stand on with his parents. Who I’m sure will just tell me “oh, you know, boys will be boys.”

This is the same excuse I got when their toddler wandered over to my yard. Alone. Three times.

“Oh, you know, you’re right. Boys will be boys. But if boys will be boys again, my girls will be girls and kick them in the nu…” – you use your imagination there.

I don’t know what it is about this particular house. Every since we moved in, there have been freaks living there.

Family #1 – during our housewarming party, I come into my front room to see several guests staring out our side window in fascination. Turns out the teenage girl is chucking every article of clothing she owns out of the top window and screaming at her mom. This girl also liked to practice walking like a supermodel up and down the street. She took a little "vacation" just before they sold the house.

Family #2 – salesman, his Russian girlfriend and his cousin. To their credit, they did a ton of work in the inside, restoring some of the original woodwork that came with the house. But then negated it by chipping paint off the outside of the house using hair dryers and sticks. The salesman was divorced, and had his son over about every other weekend. This son would come over at 7:00 in the morning on weekends in his pajamas, asking if Noah could play. We’d ask him where his dad was and he’d say “oh, still asleep.” This kid also told me that "John Kerry sucks."

Family #3 – also two families living together, this time two sisters, the one sister’s husband and five kids between them. This family foreclosed but not before one kid fell off the slide in our backyard, the dad got a girlfriend and the one mom refused to come outside to our block party, preferring instead to call in her order from the potluck to her husband outside. They also refused to pay for garbage pickup, and would instead rent a U-haul every 6 months or so (that’s right, SIX) and haul garbage themselves out of the garage to the dump.

Now, family #4. These boob-lovers have a bag full of soda cans in the backyard that looks like what you pick up after an outdoor music festival, about 5 cars (I think 2 actually work), the bee-hives, the wandering toddler….the list goes on and on.

Bradys? Where are you when we need you? Cleavers, the Beav, hell, I’d even take Roseanne Conner at this point.

For My Mom

A few weeks ago I went with my gay work husband George, his partner and another friend to see Debbie Reynolds perform with the Seattle Gay Men’s Chorus. It was a last minute invitation and truthfully, I hemmed and hawed about whether or not I wanted to drive to Seattle to go. But in the end, I’m glad I did…for lots of reasons. First, it goes without saying because I got to spend time with George. He’s like family – not sure he knows how much I adore him exactly, but I do. Second, I got to go the Five Spot. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. ‘Nuff said. And third, it was fun to go to a live performance. With three kids and a tight budget, our live entertainment is limited to people-watching at public parks and the Safeway and the musicals the girls are in every Christmas and spring. It was a treat indeed to see such talented performers and feel the excitement of everyone there.

But…I have to say, I was caught off guard by how much I thought of my mom that evening. See, ole Debbie R. (still rocking the thigh high slit skirt at 70-something) talked a lot about her days in Hollywood. She dished on her friendships with people like Judy Garland, Fred Astaire and Gene Kelly. And then, there were show tunes.

As anyone who knows my mom will attest, she is a lover of the show tune. Such a lover that she becomes totally uninhibited in her love and zest to share them with others. Mostly at inopportune times, like while on the subway (yes Mom, still holding onto that gem of a memory) or at the grocery store, but often just because the mood strikes, or because someone mentions a word that happens to be in a show tune. I guess in her way, she passed this love and appreciation down to me and many times during the night, I thought about how much she would be thrilled to be at that show. Show tunes + homos (in droves) + George = one happy Lil Debbie, methinks.

As I drove home, I realized all the things my mom has passed down to me that I’m not sure I ever thanked her for. Things like making a big deal out of a special event. Or making a big deal out of a sorta dumb event, like Valentine’s Day. I remember the cupcakes with huge pink frosting and plastic hearts that she would buy us at Giant. Things like having a red plate for the person who had something cool to celebrate or who had achieved something at school. Things like having beautifully wrapped gifts for birthday and Christmas – gifts that really meant something to the person receiving them. I wish I could have a house decorated as nicely as my mom’s – not because of fancy, store bought furniture, but because of the way she takes meaningful things, like my grandmother’s violin, and makes them part of the décor. The list goes on and on, really.

There are other things too. The memories I have of family vacations to Disney World, to Kansas, Oklahoma, South Dakota and California and most of all, to the Outer Banks are priceless. The family gatherings for holidays. The shopping trips – even when she made me get my ears pierced first.

I suspect my mom feels like she didn’t “contribute” because she stayed home with us instead of getting a paying job. But if wealth can be measured by the contributions you make to the world, I would say my mom wins tenfold. Because today, on Mother’s Day, I want to tell her that she did the best job. She taught me how to be a good mom (striving for great, not quite there yet) and my brother how to be a great dad. She taught us the importance of family tradition. She gave us the comfort and the security that someone would always be there – when we skinned our knee, when someone teased us, when we were scared. She taught us boundaries (it is NOT okay to tell your little brother that he should pee outside by the tree like dogs do, by the way). She taught us family comes first.

Thanks Mom. I probably don’t tell you enough that you are my best friend. I love and admire you. I’m sorry for all the times I let you down, did something I wasn’t supposed to or made you want to pull your hair out. I’m sorry for the times I snuck some of your Cadbury bars that you had hidden in the cabinet. I’m sorry for the times I borrowed your clothes without asking. Sorry for the times I knocked on your bedroom door when it was shut. I now understand why you were in there.

Thank you also for:

• Taking us to the drive-in in our pajamas
• For letting me go to Senior Week at Ocean City but then coming to check on us “just because we wanted to see the ocean for a couple hours”
• Always pretending Santa came, even when we were in our twenties
• Driving across country with me and going to see Graceland even though you didn’t really want to, and agreeing to stay in the hotel with a guitar shaped pool
• Going to see the movie about Howard Stern with me
• Not killing us when you took us to dinner theatre and other shows and we told you how bored we were
• Letting us open one present on Christmas Eve
• Making me a clown cake when I turned one. And then again when I turned 21.
• Finding seafood restaurants that served chicken
• Always coming up with cool Halloween costume ideas (although I think Alex got the really good ones)
• Making manicotti even though the time it took you to make it was 10 times longer than the time it took us to eat it
• Cooking dinner (breakfast?) after prom that one time – and while we are on the prom topic,
• For not letting me wear some poufy monstrosity that I would be mortified to look at now
• Not getting super mad when I would sneak something into the grocery cart, that you didn’t find out about until it was being swiped

Anyway, you get the idea.

Thanks. I love you. You (well, and Dad, but it’s not Fathers Day) made me who I am today – which some people say is not all that bad.

And I officially forgive you for not getting me a Big Wheel when I was little. I have learned to remember with fondness the Inch Worm you thought would be a good substitute.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the other amazing moms I know – especially the ones in my family: Judy, Kathy, Beth, Ann, Terri, A, Jacki, Libby, Casey, Christy, Abby, Patti, and to all my friends: Karen (all three of them), Jesse, Wendie, Lori, Glenda, Susie, and the many other moms I know, that are too countless to name here. You all inspire me in your own way – whether you’re married, single, empty nesting, expecting, struggling……

Finally, if you’ve read this far, I ask for your thoughts and prayers for my friends W&J, and for J – all of whom face health challenges in the days and months ahead and need extra good wishes sent their way.