And just like that it happened again yesterday. I rolled my trash bin to the curb at 7: 58, ten minutes past my normal 7:30 pick-up time and by noon I had heard from three different neighbors asking me about my ‘new schedule’. Mrs.
Berkowitz peeked over her white picket fence and asked me if everything was “okay at home”.
Okay? She whispered the word like a melodramatic movie villain eying their prey.
Excuse me sweet lady but what in the hell makes you think I have some sort of home problem because I put out my garbage one day late? Welcome to Oakwood Terrace, Where Everyday life is a Performance and Privacy is pushed to the grave. I have resided in this neighborhood for 8 years now.
Moving in shortly after my divorce when housing prices were considerate. If I could plagiarize from “The Real Housewives of Orange County”, I wasn’t buying a house, I was preparing for an open casting call of crazies. There are nineteen houses on my block, twenty-seven nosy people and roughly zero privacy.
POPCORN EVERYBODY LET’S POP SOME POPCORN. Because Privacy? We got none of that here.
Take last month when I decided I was going to paint my front door, for example. I chose Navy Blue. Big whoop suckers, I know it’s not groundbreaking but please, paint your siding beige like every other house on the block.
One would think I was installing a disco ball with a velvet rope around my door rather than a simple can of paint by the reactions I received from my neighbors. Dave Miller cut his “cardio stroll” (Guy doesn’t actually sweat, it’s literally a casual stroll through the neighborhood) short to ask if everything was “going through changes” with me. Linda Hoffman busted me (unprompted swatches of paint in hand) because navy blue was ‘bringing the neighborhood down’.
Which….it’s not? You’re welcome neighbors. Bill Thompson, Self appointed captain of neighborhood watch and my personal hero who takes ‘wear a tie everyday’ way too seriously literally left me a highlighted copy of the HOA rules he printed out from the computer if you can believe that.
Oh and my door looks great by the way. But I have to give it to the Patel’s next door. That couple are the real MVP’s of Oakwood Terrace.
They’re nice, I’m not here to stir up drama but these two lovebirds turned people watching into a damn hobby. Me watching them watch me is concerning. The amount of attention they must devote to peeking on my every move-especially my driveway makes me wonder if they have anything better to do.
Let’s be real though. MY SUSPICIONS RUN DEEP and I’m not talking ‘still thinking about this thoughts’ deep. Last Saturday Raj Patel was greeting me as I pulled in my groceries.
“You got new cereal!” he exclaimed while staring at my car through suspicious eyes. If I were insulted I’d be offended. “I seen you grabbing the red box over the blue ones,” he continued.
Yeah let’s just take a moment to realize how insane that statement is. To any normal individual that is. The Smuckers jams I buy regularly pride themselves on thinking they can out stare me at the grocery store because of their viewpoint.
Really whatever Mr. Fruit Peanut Butter, you look great too! Anywho, Raj is also amazing at making me feel like NO.
Sometimes it’s better not to blur the lines of reality. Meena is just as spectacular albeit, in this instance, positive. Oh Meena Patel how you watchee.
Once I received a work call because my garage was open too long. According to her it was an “unusual amount of time”, but my garage. When I questioned her where she found my work phone number?
She waved her hands dramatic yet smiled and said “Oh the neighborhood phone directory, of course!” Neighbors Phone Directory where you can find every Tom, Jane, and Mrs. Kravitz’s-ass phone number. Speaking of Mrs.
Kravitz as bizarre as it sounds is actually her name. Not only did she make sure to share with the Patel’s that I had ‘company’, but by Sunday I couldn’t enjoy any of my block party because Linda Hoffman’s daughter felt it appropriate to ask if I was going to introduce her to my new boyfriend! Ugh.
So I avoided half of the block but even my drive into work was ruined on Monday when Bill Thompson thought it’d be a good idea to switch his emergency contacts to my ‘friend from out of town’ Mark just because Chicago was ‘close enough.’
Mark lives in Minnesota for Pete’s sake. Everybody around me mines shallow levels of excitement over the simplest details of my mundane life but I promise you I am the least interesting person to ever live. I don’t throw extravagant parties, order mysterious packages or even know how to maintain a garden.
Trust me I looked at my availabilities and there is nothing odd about me. I don’t sport exotic hobbies or own any weird animals. To me, changing out of sweats on a Wednesday is headline news around these parts.
Despite my efforts I feel like I’m being smothered with attention. Nothing is private and my life is literally plagued with these anomalies. I get that by living in the suburbs, telling people “I don’t want to discuss that with you” is basically handing fodder to a pack of wolves but I try to take the nonchalant approach (“No biggie”) I’ve even tried to bore you all to death (“Let me tell you about how I organize my paperwork”) but no dice!
Nothing is working! What’s worse is that the neighbors who decide to play detective in their free time don’t even pay attention to the things I would love to discuss with others. Like my favorite novel or where I was born literally anything that I can relate to you on.
Oh sure they know what kind of haircut I got last Tuesday but do they know I have a crippling addiction to cilantro? They noticed I got a new welcome mat but did you know I published a short story last month? My neighbors are spying on me while doing literally nothing and it’s made me realize how isolated the suburbs can really be.
My theory is that my neighbors are so socially disconnected from each other that instead of communicating, they spy on each other for entertainment. They mustered up the time to do this… to me. So, it could be worse.
In the suburbs- much like holiday parking- there is no such thing as privacy. Boundaries? We don’t know her!
But here is the thing, I kinda like it? I love throwing outdated paint cans in my garage more than I should care. Seeing who freaks out in the neighborhood group chat is hilarious.
For me personally, all I do is put on some athletic pants and boom my privacy is secured. The silence that ensues is not relaxing- what bothers me about these wanna be Sherlock Pratts is the idea of me inviting them into my ‘workout routine’. Long story short if you’re looking to move to the suburbs DON’T.
All of your activities will be monitored.
From what brand of milk you buy to when you remove your junk mail from your front porch. Unless you want to be talked about as infamous as the Johnson’s and there ridiculous rock garden sculptured to look like Satan smoking a pipe you better watch your step.
I even considered buying a drone for these morons I could hire someone to make a cutout of me
that would annoy these animals – for me or should I say my neighbors the Patel’s, would at least buy me three days of peace. Peace long enough for me to drive, fly, or teleport far enough away that when those oh so friendly neighbors of mine ask “Where the heck have you been?”I can say….. now WHERE WAS I?
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