Suburban Etiquette and Other Crap

As I was driving to the liquor store tonight--and another--and another--all closed on account of some mysterious holiday called Victory Day--I had a revelation: I should always keep a break-glass-in-case-of-emergency case of wine on hand. Alas, I do not. Because it would be vamoose tout de suite. Which is why I'm drinking a martini--dirty courtesy of Stop and Shop Minced Manzanilla Olives. The olives were intended to be mixed with cottage cheese on some foolish whim. (Diet? Homey say what?)

The day started out on the wrong flip-flop. I brought my eldest, Hooligan #1, to daycare (half-day, a spit of peace), but it was closed for aforementioned Victory Day. Came home to find the Perfects cleaning out their garage and selling stuff in driveway. Even their junk is Perfect. Brand-new toys for five cents a piece. (These Perfect offspring also hold weekly lemonade stands--Pottery Barn circa this year--and are quarter- and dollaring me to death.)

On principle, or let's be honest, to avoid looking like the white trash we are, I buy only the phone Hooligan #1 begs for, although I have my heart set on the plastic kitchen -- that is AT THIS VERY MOMENT on the treebelt.

[insert sip of S & S martini]

Today I struggled yet again to figure out Suburban Etiquette. We practically share a front lawn. Do I keep the kids from playing at certain hours? Are they allowed to migrate, which they do? Shit, things were easier in my childhood when the parents let the kids run free and drank Schlitz until the streetlights came on.

So . . . this is what happened today in the following order:

1. Mrs. Perfect has friend over, who she kindly introduces me to. After, I go back to my post (folding chair under tree) to watch kids.

2. Shudder in horror as youngest, Hooligan #2, proclaims, "I lost my nail!" and holds up the dead toenail that has been threatening to come off his poor wounded big toe for days. He says this to Mrs. Perfect as she is talking to friend on her lawn, and she tells him, "Go see your mother." I can hear the unuttered "you feral imp" and run to get him, just as he proudly hands me said toenail, all the while loudly narrating that the black, bad toenail is slipping through my hands and onto their driveway.

3. Hooligan #2, in day three of potty training, proceeds to YET AGAIN pee in front of their house. I hear her say, "Please don't do that, you fer-- . . ." and before she can finish, I exclaim, "Oh, my God. Thank you." And run over to remove Mad Pee-er from the Perfects' Property.

3. Unable to control Hooligans, who have never lived in the burbs nor had neighbors who spoke to them, I take them to the Y pool and the bank and other whizz-bang 'burban locales, to remove them from the premesis.

4. After dinner, Hooligans are allowed outside again, where Hooligan #2 IMMEDIATELY sprints across the lawn to ring the Perfects' doorbell. It was a blur. "Please let him not have rang their doorbell," I pray. "Please." It is too late. The youngest Perfect emerges. A little girl, who Hooligan #1 believes is his best friend. She looks directly at me and like a rabid dog (or Zoul from Ghostbusters), barks viciously, "WE ARE IN THE MIDDLE OF DINNER!"

5. To which, I think, "You entitled little shit" but for the sake of neighborly interactions, mumble nervously, "Sorry. He got away from me. Sorry." Pull it together. She is five, for Chrissakes.

6. Then I wait. I expect a parent to come out and apologize for the daughter's rudeness, which they surely heard--and maybe, likely influenced. The latter thought makes me sad. Sadder than sad because I have PMS. An overshare, but we're all friends here, right? I think of Neil Gaiman's "The Troll Bridge" short story, where to fit in to adulthood, you have to give up. I will not. I. Will. Not.

7. After hubs comes home, late, late, I realize I am not cut out for this. Begin to google my name for bad reviews. Decide I need a glass of wine to push down the lump in my throat. Decide to drive to package store. Decide many things--I need to read the paper, volunteer, make more friends, have sex with my husband, do yoga. (OK, fuck yoga.) And #1: I realize that I don't need to be friends with the neighbor. We just need to get along.

So tomorrow, I will take my Mom's advice and say "Heya neighbor, do ya have a minute?" And explain that we Hooligans are working on the whole family/private/company time and boundaries and peeing inside and not ringing doorbells without permission. And we're really not assholes. We're just fish out of water. Bear with us. We'll get it.

(Just don't expect me to stop blasting Amy Winehouse from my minivan, mofos.)