Ever since high school, I have had my childhood phone number programmed in my phone as "The Asylum," a fitting title for the veritable nuts that inhabit(ed) the place. Between the eccentricities of the olds, my sister, myself, and our temporary brother (an exchange student from Germany), it's a wonder the place isn't a full blown loony bin.
Growing up, even the household pets qualified as neurotic. Menempsha suffered from universal hatred (of everyone but my mom), characterized by her incessant pissing on the floor; Fireball chewed electric cords because he was addicted to the shock; Angel went on frequent "basement safaris" to express herself musically through twirtling (bbbrrrrrrOOOOOOOWWWWWW, bbrrrrr, brrrrrr, brrrrrrrOOOOOWWWW!!!); Lacey thought the couch was a giant tissue on which to blow her nose.
No one is normal.
Though I no longer live "at home" and all of the aforementioned furballs have passed on (R.I.P., my little friends), my parents still remain the primary inmates of the establishment.
But the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
Since we have moved into our current dwelling place (numero 3 since our wedding 3 years ago - but who's counting?), we have acquired a number of interesting neighbors. Being in a tree top level enables you to meet and greet all sorts of wild creatures and their entourages. From the hawk we spotted in our tree the other day to the nasty blue jays dive-bombing passersby to the persnickety squirrels who bravely approach our sliding door to scold Betty, we are not without entertainment. Even the flowers in our window box are home to Banjo, our baby praying mantis (see previous post "Subletting"). These critters have become a part of our daily lives - perhaps just a step short of family. It's fantastic! While Habibi also enjoys the natural vibes we've got going on here, he often finds my involvement with and concern for our "friends" a little zany, and thus refers to our home as "Peewee's Playhouse" (minus the pervy inhabitant, of course).
Hey, if I find a feather in Banjo's box, but he is nowhere to be seen, you're damn right I'm going to get the Simba flashlight out and go search for him! And when I find him, of course the neighbors downstairs are gonna hear about it!
But even the hereditary insanity that runs rampant in my family plays second fiddle to one of our (human) neighbors.
Mr. Hairy (aptly named because you could make a coat out of this character) is one of my most favorite people on the planet. This man could make the Hezbollah giggle like little girls. Habibi and I frequently come home to find Mr. and Mrs. Hairy in the courtyard of our complex, bags of peanuts in hand, cooing up into the trees; the Hairies love the neighborhood squirrels. The other day as I was returning home from a tutoring session, I ran into Mr. Hairy, on his way back inside from one of his many "visits." We chit chatted about the weather a little bit, but the conversation soon turned to (surprise, surprise) squirrels. Evidently, Mr. Hairy's affinity for tree rodents goes beyond even my own. He knows them all by name, gender, markings, preferences, habits, family history (not kidding) and -in some cases- male organs. (Yes, you read that right. He even mentioned being jealous of Scrappy.) This man is passionate about squirrels, and I can't help but find his genuine delight in them endearing.
Amused by this odd exchange, I made the climb up the stairs that evening to decompress after another day on the job. As I recall it now, I can't help but chuckle over one of the most interesting conversations I've had in a long time...
...because it's the weirdos who make this world exciting.
 |
| Angel ("Gelly"), our resident musician |
No one is normal.
Though I no longer live "at home" and all of the aforementioned furballs have passed on (R.I.P., my little friends), my parents still remain the primary inmates of the establishment.
But the apple doesn't fall far from the tree.
Since we have moved into our current dwelling place (numero 3 since our wedding 3 years ago - but who's counting?), we have acquired a number of interesting neighbors. Being in a tree top level enables you to meet and greet all sorts of wild creatures and their entourages. From the hawk we spotted in our tree the other day to the nasty blue jays dive-bombing passersby to the persnickety squirrels who bravely approach our sliding door to scold Betty, we are not without entertainment. Even the flowers in our window box are home to Banjo, our baby praying mantis (see previous post "Subletting"). These critters have become a part of our daily lives - perhaps just a step short of family. It's fantastic! While Habibi also enjoys the natural vibes we've got going on here, he often finds my involvement with and concern for our "friends" a little zany, and thus refers to our home as "Peewee's Playhouse" (minus the pervy inhabitant, of course).
Hey, if I find a feather in Banjo's box, but he is nowhere to be seen, you're damn right I'm going to get the Simba flashlight out and go search for him! And when I find him, of course the neighbors downstairs are gonna hear about it!
But even the hereditary insanity that runs rampant in my family plays second fiddle to one of our (human) neighbors.
Mr. Hairy (aptly named because you could make a coat out of this character) is one of my most favorite people on the planet. This man could make the Hezbollah giggle like little girls. Habibi and I frequently come home to find Mr. and Mrs. Hairy in the courtyard of our complex, bags of peanuts in hand, cooing up into the trees; the Hairies love the neighborhood squirrels. The other day as I was returning home from a tutoring session, I ran into Mr. Hairy, on his way back inside from one of his many "visits." We chit chatted about the weather a little bit, but the conversation soon turned to (surprise, surprise) squirrels. Evidently, Mr. Hairy's affinity for tree rodents goes beyond even my own. He knows them all by name, gender, markings, preferences, habits, family history (not kidding) and -in some cases- male organs. (Yes, you read that right. He even mentioned being jealous of Scrappy.) This man is passionate about squirrels, and I can't help but find his genuine delight in them endearing.
Amused by this odd exchange, I made the climb up the stairs that evening to decompress after another day on the job. As I recall it now, I can't help but chuckle over one of the most interesting conversations I've had in a long time...
...because it's the weirdos who make this world exciting.
Comments
Post a Comment
Comment if you wish. Or don't.