There Goes The Neighborhood

Mexican Moonstone earrings = Business Bohemian

This morning I woke up and felt uninspired, with nothing to write about. I had a job interview scheduled for the afternoon. The job is for a retail company I'm not enthusiastic about. They sling hipster shit at astronomical prices. It's where the merchandise at Home Goods start out. Think deer horns, macrame wall hangings and sophisticated bohemian lady clothes.

While Kiki was at school, George and I rummaged through my closet looking for an outfit that would fit the bill for the interview. I was frustrated by not being able to combine business and bohemian, having a Cher moment, where my shirt with seagulls was not there when I needed it. I decided to check out the company's website. The women looked like very tame versions of Stevie Nicks, and Stevie Nicks should not, cannot, be tamed. So I sat on the edge of the bed thinking, "Fuck it. I'm wearing this damn business suit, that makes me feel like I am playing in my Dad's closet."
I put on running clothes, and started to get George dressed, so we could run to Kiki's school for pick up. I looked out my kitchen window and watched my neighbor hobbling to my front door. George was still in his diaper, chasing me with a bottle of nail polish, hollering with excitement, "Paint my nails!"
I opened the front door, "Hello!"
"Ashley! My grandson he is going crazy. He won't stop screaming. He punched my husband in the head."
I brought her inside, and she explained that her grandson, who moved in with her two years earlier, was on one of his rampages, but this time he went beyond his normal crazy because he punched her husband, his grandfather, in the head. She told me her husband called the police, but after ten minutes I called them too, looking out the window, nervous my neighbor was being pummeled by his deranged grandson. George sensed the stress because he stopped chanting about nail polish, and glued himself to me like a quiet koala.
I poured her a glass of water, and she told me that her xantax can't keep up with the anxiety her grandson gives her. A pesky fly kept landing on her face and water glass as she was telling me about how they are at their wits end, and can't help him any longer because of his fits of rage, and he has to move out. I agreed, and consoled her as she told me more about how he is just as shitty you would imagine someone is who punches their grandfather in the head.
After a while, she said, "We have these flies too. My grandson never closes the back door."
The flies in my house are a terrible nuisance, who can even distract a woman reeling with anxiety because of her abusive grandson. I was going to complain about the flies, the god awful, relentless, shit eating flies, but figured it was a minuscule problem at the moment. The night before I sat in bed as my husband circled the room with a magazine, batting at flies. I'd shout, "The fly is over there! Get it! Get it!" Then pull the cover over my head, anticipating the fly being swung into my gaping mouth.
After sitting with my neighbor for thirty minutes, her husband came over. "Thanks, Ashely." He said, looking sad, with a cut next to his eye.
"No problem, at all." I said, wishing I had corrected them three years ago when they started calling me Ashley. He was quiet as he led his wife home.
I painted a quick coat of glitter polish on George's toes, and we rushed to the car, in a time crunch to pick up Kiki.
When we arrived home, I decided to abandon the job interview. I'd probably get the job because it's not the one I want. I called my husband and told him about the neighbors and he grew stressed, saying, "We have GOT to move."
I don't want to indulge in a move anytime soon, so I said, "We have to wait till the grandson who looks like an Al Qaeda recruit leaves, with his pit bull and broke down van that sits on cinder blocks in the street. Our property will have much better curb appeal."
He agreed, and suggest we watch the Colin Hanks Tower Records documentary in the afternoon. I told him I'd head to the theater early, right after the babysitter arrives, because I need to go on a run, apologizing in advance, that I will be a sweaty stinky pig during the film.
I parked at the theater and started my run, heading to the upscale neighborhood, Land Park. I gazed upon the beautiful Tudor style houses on the mature-tree lined street. There didn't seem to be any obvious elderly abusers. The leaves were raining down on me, and I couldn't help smiling as the unfamiliar iTunes playlist played one kooky song after the next, like Selfie, which might be the nuttiest song I've ever heard.
When I rounded the corner of the baseball field on the edge of the park, I passed a blue town car. I looked over into the driver's seat and there was a man masturbating, right there in fucking broad day light. I gasped, and moved my eyes to the sidewalk in front of me, not up to see what the guys face looked like. I'd assume he'd be mortified, however, there is the chance he gives a little wink.
When I ran up to the theater, my husband was sitting on the bench. We bought our tickets and snacks, then climbed the stairs to the back rows. As we climbed I said, "I was going to do a job interview today, only because I thought it would be exciting, get my blood pumping, mix up the routine. But today has been a fucking roller coaster. Wait till I tell you what I saw in Land Park!" Then I whispered to him that along the perimeter of the prestigious park, and it's architectural digest manors, I caught someone jerking off in their car.
"Really?!" He said shocked.
"Really! There goes the neighborhood!"

These flies...