Won’t Ya Be My Neighbor?

A couple of years ago I wrote a blog post about our next door neighbor here in AZ. It might be important for you to read (or reread) the blog post in order to understand why I’m so focused on my new neighbor. Here is the link to that post. I’ll wait.

Okay. Are you back?

Anyhoo, the couple about whom that post was written sold their house at the end of December, and have moved elsewhere. (By the way, I have never been able to confirm or refute whether she chose the lifestyle he did. In the six years since we bought this house, I only spoke to her on one occasion, and it was about the bird nest in our tree. She was fully clothed. Nevertheless, the fact that I only saw her once in six years speaks volumes, doesn’t it?) Odd as it sounds, I was kind of sad. All-in-all, they had been good neighbors. Yes, it’s true that if their garage door was open, it was important – essential, really – that one had to avert one’s eyes or be strongly at risk of seeing something that would haunt you well into the next day. I’m as serious as a heart attack, I promise.

But they had our telephone number, and the telephone number of my niece Maggie and her husband Mark. On more than one occasion, circumstances warranted a phone call from our neighbor to Mark. The most recent was when our sprinkler system blew up. It was nice to know that someone sort of kept an eye on our house in the long months when none of us are here. His attire (or lack thereof) mattered not in that case.

But they moved on. He and I chatted when Bill and I were here in November. It was right after the house had been sold and shortly before they were going to move. Most importantly, he was fully clothed.

“Where are you guys moving to?” I asked him.

“Well, we’re not certain where we’ll settle eventually, but we will rent an apartment until we find a suitable 55-plus neighborhood in which to live,” he answered.

As my grandkids would chant, “Dum, dum, duuuuuuum.”

The code word, my friends, is suitable.

I admit that I immediately went inside and began googling Fifty Plus Nudist Communities in AZ. I came up with exactly zero, and luckily have not started receiving links to porn sites from Google. That’s actually quite a surprise when you think about it. I went into Joann’s Crafts Sunday and bought some yarn. In the store. Not online. And since then, I’ve been getting Google ads for the brand and color of yarn that I purchased IN THE STORE. It’s creepy, but I digress.

The house was sold to an older woman whose name is Patsy, but who I always, ALWAYS call Doris. I don’t really know why. I don’t even know a Doris. My best guess is that it’s because she reminds me of Doris Roberts, the actor who played the mother on a program I almost never watched called Everybody Loves Raymond, and who was one of the many Famous People Who Died in 2016.

800px-dorisrobertsapr2011-2

Doris Roberts, not Patsy

Doris – I mean Patsy — seems nice. She was living in a townhome and climbing all of the steps became problematic, and so she purchased the nice little ranch next door. I have already seen her at least three times as much as I ever saw our neighbor’s wife. What’s more, she has been clothed every time. It’s true she is wearing the standard Arizona Senior Citizen Uniform of beige capris and a polyester button-down shirt, but that’s okay, because that’s what I wear also.

The barely-adult granddaughter who shares the house with her has caused us no consternation as of yet. It’s true she drives a Mustang with a big and loud engine that roars into life at 7:30 each morning when she leaves for work, but that’s fine with me. I’m long awake, and thrilled that she isn’t naked. It’s the little things.

The yippy dog might grow on me, just as might I grow on him.

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